


You Are a Walking Graveyard

by Cinaed



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Military Background, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Church needed a semi-stable job. Tucker had a new get-rich quick plan. And Caboose? Well, Caboose was just excited at the potential to meet Casper the Friendly Ghost. Instead they found themselves in a deadly adventure involving ghostly possession, creepy-ass demons, and unfortunate encounters with their rival ghost-hunting team the Reds.





	1. good nights

**Author's Note:**

> And here begins my self-indulgent ghost hunter AU fic, brought about by a) watching Buzzfeed Unsolved and Red vs Blue side by side, b) seeing someone's ghost hunter AU fanart of Sarge trying to sacrifice Grif to a demon, and c) having Brent and Ryan discuss someone having business cards for a 'ghost scientist' career and immediately going "LEONARD CHURCH: GHOST SCIENTIST" because he would be exactly that kind of nerd. 
> 
> The title and chapter titles comes from L. Shreiber's [poetry for the signs: the “it is okay” edition](http://cinaed.tumblr.com/post/162875191306/aries-there-was-a-war-in-your-childhood-home). 
> 
> Thanks goes out to the anon on FFA who came up with the amazing idea of Tucker and Donut's Wine and Cheese Hour. 
> 
> The main pairing is Church/Tucker, but Doc/Donut, Ohio/Sherry, and past Church/Tex are referenced.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the strange tale I'm about to tell you starts anywhere, it begins when seven men decided to enlist in the armed forces. They did so for different reasons: patriotism, college tuition, love, escape, or the lack of anything else to do. Some served a four-year term of enlistment and retired, while others were forcibly retired with injuries and honorable discharges. By the summer of 2016, all of them had been set adrift in civilian life. Their individual struggles would lead them all to the same place: a weekly group therapy in the west wing of the veterans hospital in Wilmington, Delaware. There the ex-soldiers met and became friends of a sort.

_"_ From Soldiers to Ghost Hunters: The Strange Tale of the Reds and Blues"

Dylan Andrews  
October 4, 2017  
Global Daily News

If the strange tale I'm about to tell you starts anywhere, it begins when seven men decided to enlist in the armed forces. They did so for different reasons: patriotism, college tuition, love, escape, or the lack of anything else to do. Some served a four-year term of enlistment and retired, while others were forcibly retired with injuries and honorable discharges.

By the summer of 2016, all of them had been set adrift in civilian life.

Their individual struggles would lead them all to the same place: a weekly group therapy in the west wing of the veterans hospital in Wilmington, Delaware. There the ex-soldiers met and became friends of a sort.

In early October, one man made a suggestion that would transform these former soldiers into internet celebrities and ghost hunters. After one of their youngest members, Michael J. Caboose, allegedly pestered the group to join him on a haunting tour (“To meet Casper the Friendly Ghost,” Caboose has explained in a recent Reddit AMA and multiple online interviews with apparent sincerity), Lavernius Tucker joked that he’d come along if Caboose would let him fight any ghosts they met.

Never one to turn down a challenge, the oldest of the group, Sarge, decided to make it a competition and divided them into teams. Sarge, Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons, and Franklin Donut formed one team as former Marines. Lavernius Tucker, Michael Caboose, and Leonard Church formed the other as former Air Force officers. Somehow that first grainy video of seven men attempting to find and fight ghosts grew into an entire YouTube channel with 9 million subscribers.

Almost a year later, it feels as though you can’t visit a website like Facebook and Tumblr without seeing gifs (animated images) and quotation graphics from one of the Reds and Blues.

The most popular series on the channel is _Fighting Ghosts_ , which uploads a new video the first and third Thursday of each month, but the other series within the channel are also shockingly popular. These series have the same hosts, with the other Reds and Blues showing up as occasional guest stars, and offer new content each week.

Church and Grif have _Point/Counterpoint_ , a biweekly Monday show where they spend between 30 minutes to an hour arguing over topics that vary from tattoos to proper behavior on the internet.

Sarge’s untitled solo videos, dubbed by the fan base at large as _Sargeisms_ and heavily debated as to their sincerity, discuss conspiracy theories and unsolved mysteries every third Wednesday of the month.

The second and fourth Thursday of the month are Grif and Simmons’ _Your Friendly Guide to the Apocalypse and Other Things The Media Never Prepared You For_ , in which the two argue over apocalypse survival plans and debate movies and TV shows.

 _Donut and Tucker's Romantic Advice Wine & Cheese Hour_ is an hour-long video the last Sunday of each month, best known for the internet drinking game that has sprung up around Donut’s innuendo-laden dialogue and Tucker’s less-than-successful romantic advice.

Lastly, two particular fan favorites that are updated on sporadic Fridays and Sundays: _Caboose’s Let’s Plays_ , in which Caboose narrates his attempts at playing video games, and _Caboose’s Guides_ , in which he offers endearing but often ill-advised suggestions on how to make friends and deal with problems.   

The Reds and Blues seem to have drawn fans from every walk of life. Their watchers are varied: liberal and conservative, young and old, male and female. There are casual viewers, but many do more than watch the videos. They create Tumblr blogs, Facebook pages, and Twitter accounts dedicated to the Reds and Blues. They post reaction videos after each episode. They flood the YouTube comments with suggestions on which haunted house to visit next. They write fan fiction in which the Reds and Blues fight ghosts alongside the Ghostbusters. They draw art of the Blues battling aliens on distant planets or Caboose befriending Casper the Friendly Ghost.

What is it about these seven men that inspire such passion and dedication? There are multiple theories, generally contradicting the others.

Some say the “bro” humor, casual profanity, and constant insults the Reds and Blues use are a refreshing change from the current PC culture stifling society. This theory lost credence after several of the Reds and Blues did a PSA mocking the current administration’s views on military and veterans benefits, but still persists in corners of the web. It has even turned into a conspiracy theory suitable for an episode of  _Sargeisms._  Certain viewers claim that the Reds and Blues were forced to make that PSA because of powerful liberals controlling the internet.

Others point at the diversity of their backgrounds and lifestyles and uphold the Reds and Blues as an important example of America as a melting pot. All seven men had vastly different upbringings. Simmons, Sarge, and Church were raised by both parents. Donut's two mothers married shortly after Iowa legalized same-sex marriage in 2009. The rest were raised by divorced or widowed parents. Most are only children, but Grif has a sister and Caboose has seventeen sisters. They grew up across the United States: Honolulu, Hawaii; a remote town in Montana; inner-city Baltimore; a sprawling farm in Iowa; a small estate in upper New York; a half-dozen military bases. Speculation abounds regarding many of the men's sexual orientations, although as of this publication only Donut has spoken openly about his relationship with another man. 

Still others say that the men offer a neglected voice for veterans. All of them have injuries and disabilities sustained during their service, ones that they discuss candidly during their videos. Caboose and Church suffered serious head injuries after their plane crashed during a training mission, and both work with cognitive issues that include memory issues and migraines. Donut is legally deaf in one ear and partially blind from a grenade blast. Grif underwent major reconstructive surgery on his legs and had one kidney and part of his stomach removed after being run over by an enemy combatant. Simmons lost his right arm and leg to an IED. Sarge’s service record is heavily redacted, but he has mentioned being shot. Tucker sustained a life-threatening knife wound.

Personally, after watching their videos and interviewing numerous fans, I think the answer might be far simpler: they're fun to watch. What's not to like about seven grown men trying to fight ghosts that may or may not exist?

Whatever the reason for the Reds and Blues’ popularity, it doesn’t seem inclined to fade any time soon. You can watch their videos for yourself on the Reds and Blues channel on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCII0hP2Ycmhh5j8lS4cexBQ), all available for free, and purchase merchandise from their [website](https://store.roosterteeth.com/collections/red-vs-blue).

\--

 **Update:** The article stated that Michael J. Caboose has seventeen sisters. This has caused enough controversy in the comments that the editors need to clarify that this is not a misprint. Caboose has seventeen sisters: Abigail, Bethany, Chloe, Dina, Esther, Faith, Gabrielle, Hannah, Isabel, Julia, Keturah, Leah, Naomi, Olivia, Paula, Rachel, and Shiloh. 

 

* * *

 

"Fuck yeah, as if you needed more proof that I'm famous," Church said as soon as the video solidified into Tex's face. "A Pulitzer-prize winning reporter just gave us a glowing review! And you said Tucker's idea was dumb."

"It's still dumb," Tex scoffed. "Andrews must have gotten on her editor's bad side." Her image was grainy, but decent enough that he could tell she was smiling. She bent close to the camera, her shoulders blocking out most of the background, but he knew if she moved, he'd see the inside of her barracks and maybe one or two of her teammates relaxing during their rare hour of downtime. "You’re internet famous, like the cat that sits in boxes."

Church grinned at her. "You're just jealous."

"Sure," she said dryly. "Sign an autograph for me, would you? I'll sell it on Ebay."

"You mock, but Caboose's signature goes for like seventy bucks. It'd be more, but he'll literally sign anything people ask him to so he's pretty much saturated the market. I once saw him sign a photo of Casper the Friendly Ghost and ask the guy why he didn't have Casper's autograph yet."

Tex laughed. Then a familiar calculating look crossed her face. "Seventy bucks? So what does yours go for?" When he didn't answer, she laughed again. "Aw, is Caboose the internet's favorite Blue? I can't say I blame them."

"Hey," Church said, offended. He jabbed a finger at his laptop. "Fuck that noise. Caboose isn't your favorite. I am, okay? I knew you first. I called dibs like ten years ago."

" _Dibs_?" Church winced a little at Tex's tone. She leaned closer, and he got a close up of her unimpressed look. "You've been spending way too much time with Tucker, asshole. Also, I'm pretty sure your dibs was cancelled when I dumped your ass."

"You didn't dump me. It was a mutual break-up," Church reminded her.

He sighed as Tex snorted and said fondly, "No such thing, Leonard. But sure, keep on thinking that if it makes you feel better." Someone spoke behind her, and she straightened, disappearing briefly from camera view. When she bent low again, her grainy smile had a frustrated edge to it. "Sorry, duty calls. Tell everyone I said hi, and that you're not allowed to get eaten by a demon."

Church bit back a protest. It was old news that Tex lived and breathed Pararescue, but he still felt like a little needy bitch whenever she had to cut their videos short. It was probably one of the reasons she'd dumped him. He forced a smile, though he knew that she saw through it. "I'll pass that along. Stay safe."

She lingered, smiling again. "Where's the fun in that? Don't forget to take your meds." Then the video cut out.

He touched the screen where her face had been. "Stay safe," he repeated, like saying the words over and over again would make it reality. He choked down the helpless fear that always strangled him whenever Tex went on a mission. Tex was the closest thing he had to family. He couldn't lose her.

He turned almost gratefully to his phone when it buzzed.

 

    **Grif:** Hey what should we do for the next point video

    **Church:** Who fucking cares. We can come up with something on the fly.

    **Grif:** Who pissed in your cheerios dude

    **Grif:** Wait you were talking to Tex today right is she okay

    **Church:** She's fine. Just going on a mission.

 

The phone was silent for a moment. Then it buzzed again. 

 

    **Grif:** Want to talk about it?

    **Church:** No. But now I've chosen our next video. How to use common grammar and punctuation rules when texting so you don't look like an idiot.

    **Grif:**  Don't be such a fucking nerd

    **Grif:** Simmons will get paranoid you're stealing his thing

    **Church:** Seriously? I think I can take him.

    **Grif:** Dude is half robot pretty sure you'd lose

 

Church shook his head, but at least Grif being an idiot was a good distraction. He was about to respond when his phone began to play the latest dumb-ass song that Tucker had set for his number that week.

"Hey, man," Tucker said when he answered. "Take your meds yet?"

Church stared at his cell. His eyes narrowed. What were the odds that Tex and Tucker would both nag him about his medicine within five minutes of each other? "What the fuck? Does Allison have you on speed-dial? Was her last act before going radio-silent to ask you to check in on me? Fuck you guys, I'm a grown-ass adult."

"Chill out." Church could hear the eye-roll in Tucker's voice. "I just wanted to make sure your brain wasn't going to explode because you were too busy pining for your ex to take your pills. Excuse me for actually giving a fuck."

"I wasn't pining," Church said. "And that's not how my medicine works." He wasn't really surprised when Tucker snorted and said, "Sure, man, whatever." Tucker didn't believe that men and women could be friends, and Church had stopped trying to convince him of it. Church opened up his cupboards, rummaging around for a clean glass. It took him a minute to find one. He should probably start washing dishes more often. "Do you want to hear me swallow them loudly for you, so you'll stop worrying like a little girl?"

"Fuck off," Tucker said. Then his voice changed, going soft and warm in a way that definitely didn't do anything weird to Church's chest. "Hey, Junior! Are you done brushing your teeth? Come over and tell Uncle Church goodnight!"

"Goodnight, Uncle Church!" Junior said. Or at least that's what Church thought he said. The kid had a major speech impediment. Tucker seemed able to translate for Junior with no problem, and the speech therapist at school reportedly wasn't worried, but half the time Church just nodded and pretended that he knew what Junior had said.

"Night, Junior," he said, smiling into the phone. His eyes strayed to the front of his fridge, which was mostly bare. There was his appointment calendar to track his doctor and therapy visits and all the Reds and Blues YouTube shit, of course. But he'd stuck two photos up there too, after Caboose had visited and whispered in a confiding way that the fridge looked sad. One photo was of Allison in her gear, her nose scrunched up and her lips parted, about to scold him for taking a picture. The other was a picture from a recent trip to an amusement park, when he, Tucker, and Junior had ridden a kiddie roller-coaster together. Junior had grabbed his hand, not Tucker's. Tucker had sulked about it for a week. He looked at that photo as he said, "I hear you kicked some ass this week at basketball." As much as a first-grader could kick ass at a sport, anyway.

Tucker cut in before Junior could answer. "Hey, Church, watch your fucking mouth around my kid. I've been hauled in twice this month for him cursing. There's only so many times I can claim she misheard him because of his speech impediment."

Church rolled his eyes. "Watch your own mouth."

"Yeah, yeah," Tucker said dismissively. "Okay, Junior, time for bed! I'll read you a book once I'm done talking with Uncle Church." The phone clattered and Junior laughed, his giggling loud and delighted, like Tucker had just picked him up and carried him away.

Church waited. A minute later, Tucker came back to the phone, breathing a little hard. "Fuck, I don't know how much longer I can do that. I swear I put him to bed and he grows another inch by morning."

"He obviously didn't get that from you," Church said, and grinned as Tucker said, "Oh, fuck off. I'm not that short."

They were both quiet for a moment. Church let himself listen to Tucker breathe as he poured himself some water and flipped up the evening tab of his pill box. The pills gleamed in the muted glare of his kitchen lights. His mind offered up an instinctive check-list: an anti-coagulant to prevent blood clots, an anti-convulsant to prevent seizures, a sedative for sleep.

He glanced at the microwave's clock. He needed to take his pills and then start getting ready for bed. Still he let the moment stretch out another few breaths. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said finally. Then he remembered something. "Wait. Fuck. It's Grif's turn to host again, isn't it?" He shuddered. The last time they'd been to Grif's apartment had been February. When Donut had gone to put his coat in the closet, an avalanche of smelly clothes Grif had shoved in there had half-buried him. Grif had just laughed and blamed everyone for being dumb enough to make him host.

"Don't worry. I'm pretty sure Simmons plans to show up early and clean."

"Oh, thank God."

Tucker laughed a little. "Night, Church."

"Night."

Church held the cell for another second after Tucker had hung up, and then sighed, thumbing through his phone contacts. He needed to take his pills, but he also had one more call to make.

"HEY, CHURCH!"

Church was thankful that he'd learned how to hold his phone far away from his ear whenever he was on the phone with Caboose. He still winced. "Hey, rookie. Indoor voice, remember? Are we pill buddies tonight, or did you remember to take them?"

"Oh, um," Caboose said, dragging the words out. "Yes? Today is Sunday, because I went to church with everybody, and Dina always makes sure I take my pills on Sundays. Just like Gabrielle reminds me on Monday, and Abigail--"

"Caboose," Church said firmly, recognizing a Caboose tangent when he heard one.

"But let me check my pill box!" A moment passed, and Church could picture Caboose leaning over his pill box, which his sisters had decorated with stickers, and peering intently at it. "I can see Ms. Smiley Face for both the Sunday morning and nighttime, the ones Rachel gave me, so I took my pills just like Dina told me to! Did you take your pills, Church?"

"I'm about to, so we can both go the fuck to sleep."

"Church?" Caboose said, and Church sighed at the hopeful note in his voice. "Will you sing me a lullaby? Like King Richard sings to Gareth, because they're very best friends, even if Gareth pretends he hates him?" 

Church closed his eyes. Damn Donut and his musical movies and TV nights. "No, Caboose."

"That's okay! Sometimes I don't feel like singing either!" Caboose said agreeably. "Simmons and Grif made a remix of you talking to me for my birthday and put it to music, so I'll listen to that instead."

"Wait, Grif and Simmons did _what_ \--"

"Goodnight, best friend!"

Church stared at his phone. For a second he was tempted to text Grif and ask what Caboose was talking about. On second thought, it was probably best to ambush him and Simmons in person tomorrow. They both had shitty poker faces. He shook the pills into his palm and dry-swallowed them, then drank the glass of water, and a second one for good measure. Then he crossed out the day on his calendar and prepared for bed. He tried not to worry about Allison, risking her life rescuing people that she probably should let earn the Darwin Award.

He slid into bed and closed his eyes. The sedative slowly kicked in. His thoughts drifted. Across town, Tucker was probably still reading to Junior. Church bet it was that stupid Pete the Cat book that Doc had given Junior on his last birthday. Junior was obsessed with it, even after Simmons and Church had pointed out its incorrect color theory. Church would have to buy him a better book, he thought drowsily, something based on facts and actual science. Then the sedative dragged him under.


	2. come inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons had tried. Church would give him that much. He’d obviously spent the morning and afternoon at Grif’s apartment, doing laundry and dishes, and vacuuming, dusting, and airing out the rooms. All that effort had helped, but the smell of cigarettes and day-old pizza still lingered under the fumes of Hawaiian Breeze or whatever fucking air deodorizer Simmons had sprayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delayed chapter! I'll be posting much more regular updates from now on, now that I'm not juggling a vacation and about seven theater trips on top of work. ...And writing a scene involving seven people at once, RIP me. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Simmons had tried. Church would give him that much. He’d obviously spent the morning and afternoon at Grif’s apartment, doing laundry and dishes, and vacuuming, dusting, and airing out the rooms. All that effort had helped, but the smell of cigarettes and day-old pizza still lingered under the fumes of Hawaiian Breeze or whatever fucking air deodorizer Simmons had sprayed.

Church resigned himself to breathing through his mouth for the evening.  

“Hola, amigos! How are my favorite ghost hunters doing?” Vic crowed via speakerphone. He didn’t wait for a response. “Those were some pretty fricking sweet accolades in the Global Daily News. Think I should send that chick a fruit basket? Or maybe that’s weird. Eh, I think I’ll send one. So, we need to do something epic for your anniversary, am I right, dudes? Something that folks are gonna remember forever, like Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction or some Blair Witch Project level shit. So no pressure! Ha, I’m just messing with you. Let’s have fun! What are we thinking? I want to put this out to all our fans ASAP.”

It took everyone a second to parse Vic’s rambling, as it usually did. At least he made up for his incoherence by having connections as vast and mysterious as Donut’s. Those two were probably the main reason their YouTube channel had taken off.

Simmons cleared his throat. His features took on a familiar pissy look. “If people would let me read out the minutes of our last meeting, you’d see that we agreed to do an anniversary special with both the Reds and the Blues. We just need to decide on the location.” He paused, and added with a pointed frown at Grif, “Everyone was _supposed_ to email me suggestions so we could discuss it tonight.”

Grif snorted. “Like you were going to take any of my ideas seriously.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’d take them seriously if they were genuine suggestions and not just egging Caboose on about Casper.” He immediately winced, looking like he’d regretted his words, but it was too late.  

“Are we finally meeting Casper?!” Caboose bounced excitedly on the sofa and clapped his hands. “Do you think he’ll want to be my friend?”

“Aw, I’m sure he will, Caboose,” said Donut, playing along with a smile. “Who wouldn’t want to be your friend?”

“Oh, wow,” Caboose said, starry-eyed. He faltered for a second, darting a guilty look at Church. “Though he won’t be my _best_ friend, of course.” He brightened again. “But we’re going to have some really fun adventures! I’ll help him deal with that mean Ghostly Trio!”

“Look at that, Grif,” Sarge growled, the first words he’d spoken all evening. He was always at his most sullen and reticent whenever the group met at Grif’s apartment. “Now you’ve gone and gotten the poor boy’s hopes up. I hope you’re happy about breaking his heart.”

Grif opened his mouth, probably to remind Sarge that Simmons was the one who had mentioned Casper. Then he shut it and shrugged. Church suspected that he recognized a lost cause when he saw one. “We’ve got to break it to him sometime. Better us than some douchebag online, right?”

“Oh yeah, let’s do that,” Simmons said sarcastically. “While we’re at it, let’s tell him the truth about Santa Claus too. I’m sure that’ll go well. And I know for a _fact_ that you don’t have any tissues in this apartment if he starts crying.” He paused and reconsidered. " _When_ he starts crying." 

“Uh, duh. That’s what toilet paper’s for. Don’t buy into all that consumerism shit, Simmons.”

Caboose nodded, looking solemn for a moment. For a second Church thought he had actually followed the conversation. Then he said, “Simmons is probably right. I would cry a lot if I met Casper  _and_ Santa Claus on the same night.”

“Maybe we should bring Doc in for a consult--” Donut began hopefully. Both Simmons and Grif briefly united to snap “No!” at him. He pouted. “Jeez, guys, are you ever going to let it go? Doc didn’t know Dr. Grey would become our new group therapist when he told the hospital about our relationship!”

“She makes me cry every session,” Simmons muttered. “I think she _enjoys_ it.”

Grif scowled. “She actually suggested last week that I bring Kai to a session when she gets back stateside. I’ll talk to that traitor when he dumps your ass and saves us.”

Donut’s one eye narrowed. The other had too much scarring around it to do much, but it still glared daggers as he said, “My hearing aid battery must be running low, because I _thought_ I heard you just say that you’d rather have Doc as the group therapist than see us in a happy and committed relationship.”

Grif snorted. “I said it, and I stand by it.”  

Church had learned early on in their group therapy sessions to tune out the former Marines’ bickering. He ignored it now in favor of dodging Caboose’s elbow as Caboose flailed, cheerfully rambling to Sarge about his impending conversation with Casper.

He bumped into Tucker, who said with an over-the-top leer, “If you wanted to sit in my lap, you could’ve just asked.”

Church flipped him off. Then he resettled in the middle of the couch, trying and failing to find a spot that didn’t make him bump into either Tucker or Caboose. Somehow he always ended up sharing the sofa with those two, trapped awkwardly between them and enduring the occasional misplaced knee or elbow. It was probably left over from what Donut had dubbed ‘The Epic Duel Between Tucker and Caboose to Win Church’s Heart’ and the rest of the group just sarcastically called the BFF War.

Fuck, Church was surrounded by assholes. Though it _had_ been fun to convince Tucker and Caboose that the person who could give him the most piggy-back rides would be his best friend.  

Tucker chose that moment to lean in front of Church. Church got a close up of Tucker’s amused smile as Tucker said, “Caboose, I have to know. How would you deal with the Ghostly Trio?”  

“Hey, personal space, jackass,” Church said. He almost threw Tucker’s earlier words back at him, but the thought of Tucker in his lap made the words catch uneasily in his throat. He settled for punching Tucker in the shoulder when Tucker didn’t move. “Get off.”  

“Oh I’ll get off. I’ll get off like I got your mom off last night,” Tucker said with a grin. “Bow chicka wow wow.”

“Bow chicka wow wow jar,” everyone chorused, Caboose a beat behind everyone but making up for it with loud enthusiasm.

Grif picked up the jar and shook it at Tucker. It was mostly empty, but only because they’d used most of the money to tip the pizza delivery guy last time. “That wasn’t even a good mom joke, so you get a four dollar surcharge for being lame.”  

Tucker scowled as he fished out a five-dollar bill from his wallet and put it in the jar. “Fuck you, assholes. I still think that jar is fucking dumb.” He paused, and Church knew they were screwed by the sympathetic look that spread across his face. Tucker turned back to Caboose and said regretfully, “Sorry, Caboose. Simmons vetoed meeting Casper.”  

Caboose shot Simmons such a look of horrified betrayal that Simmons flushed and looked guilty. “Tucker’s lying!” Caboose’s expression didn’t change. Simmons squirmed. His eyes darted around the room, but no one else leaped in to save him. Church was just relieved that Tucker hadn’t thrown _him_ under the bus. Simmons added weakly, “But, um, I think Casper lives in Europe. Right, guys? He totally lives in Europe! We can’t justify the expense this year. Maybe, uh, maybe next anniversary?”

“Okay!” Caboose said, brightening.

“Oh, a trip to Europe,” Donut said, clasping his hands to his chest. He smiled dreamily. “I’ve been wanting to take Doc somewhere special. And what’s more romantic than Paris, the city of love?” He winked, though Church wasn’t sure who he was directing the teasing look towards. Probably all of them. “And who knows, maybe a few of you will be inspired by the atmosphere!”

“Yeah, Doc’s not invited,” Grif said.

“Also, you agreed to no more matchmaking,” Simmons added. He made a face. "Remember last time? I'm  _still_ finding glitter in my apartment!"  

Grif nodded and pointed at Donut. “Yeah, so no gondola rides and shit.”  

“That’s Venice, dumbass,” Simmons said.

Church wasn’t in the mood for another round of Grif calling Simmons a nerd and Simmons insulting the Honolulu educational system. He was also trying hard not to remember Donut's ill-advised attempts to try and get him and Tex back together. That had been a terrible week. He tried to get the conversation back on topic. “So Casper’s out. What are we thinking for this year?”

Simmons fiddled with his phone. “I typed up a list of potential sites. I thought we should stick close to home, especially after Ms. Andrews emphasized Wilmington in her article. This is where everything started after all. I’d suggest we go back to the first haunted site we visited but….” He shrugged.  

“Wait, we’re _still_ banned from there?” Tucker said. When Simmons nodded sheepishly, he laughed. “Don’t they realize we’re famous?”

“Apparently they take their lifetime bans seriously,” Church said dryly. Plus, honestly, they’d kind of deserved that one. In retrospect, it seemed obvious that Sarge would try to shoot potential ghosts. Now Simmons had the unenviable duty of checking Sarge for loaded weapons before the Reds went into haunted houses. Church gestured for Simmons to pass over his phone, then started to scan the list. Most of the sites were familiar. Rockwood Mansion. Bellevue Hall. Jessop's Tavern. One in particular caught his attention. He looked up. “What about the Harrington House? The fans have been wanting us to do it for a while. And it’s actually pretty cool. I went in there once, just to scope the place out. The way you can see the architecture change over the decades as she built each addition--”

Grif snorted. “Jesus. Tone it down, nerd. No one cares that much about architecture.”

Apparently Grif hadn’t been kidding about Simmons wanting to be the only nerd in the group, because Simmons actually looked offended. Or he was just indignant at the implication that architecture was boring, because the next words out of his mouth were, “I happen to think Church is right. The architecture--”  

Vic interrupted. “Oh, that’s the mansion that rich lady built, right? With the bitchin’ architecture and feuding ghosts, like you’re trapped in _The Shining_ hotel, only it’s this lady’s house? Yeah, that sounds good to me, dudes. Could do some crazy shit with camera angles. And those ghost are supposed to be super chatty.”

Sarge’s expression had darkened as Vic had rambled. Now he rose to his feet and thundered, “I object!”

Church sighed inwardly. He ran through a mental list of potential objections that made sense to Sarge’s crazy brain. “Let me guess,” he said. “The mansion’s painted blue.”

Sarge scowled. “That’s another point against it, I’ll admit, but don’t pretend you aren’t pushing your Air Force agenda onto our viewers!” He glared at everyone’s baffled looks. “Harrington’s last descendant died in WWI.” When everyone kept staring, he added tersely, “He was a pilot.”

There was a pause as the group absorbed this. Then Simmons coughed. He looked nervous, as he always did whenever he had to contradict Sarge. “Um, sir? I don’t think we’d have to mention that he was a pilot. We could just say he died in WWI and leave it at that.”

“Not when his ghost wanders the grounds in an aviator uniform,” Sarge said darkly.

“Then we should _definitely_ go there, Sarge,” Grif said. “Think about it. He’d be the perfect ghost to fight. One of the earliest flyboys? You could put that kid in his place!” His expression shone with sincerity, but Church saw the glint of humor in his eyes.

Sarge’s face contorted. Clearly he thought that was a good idea, but just as clearly he didn’t want to agree with Grif. After a moment he growled, reluctance in every syllable, “They say a stopped clock is right twice a day. I suppose I wouldn’t mind fighting that ghost.”

“Any objections? Then we’re agreed,” Church said hastily before anyone could object and the conversation could derail into further bullshit. Fuck democracy. Last time the meeting had lasted an extra hour because no one could agree on the proper toppings for pizza. He passed the phone back. “We’ll do the Harrington House for the anniversary special.”

“When I called, she said next Tuesday or the twenty-fourth. She also offered to let us stay the night if we wanted.”  

Tucker raised a hand. “The twenty-fourth would work better for me. Junior has a dentist’s appointment next Tuesday.” He stared meaningfully at Grif and added, “If he has cavities and needs fillings, I don’t want to ditch him on a babysitter afterwards.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Grif groaned. “Let it go. Your kid’s not going to get a cavity because I gave him one or two lousy sodas.”

“What was the one thing I told you and Simmons when I agreed to let you babysit?”

“ _One_ thing?” Grif said incredulously. He glanced at Simmons, whose expression clearly said he was letting Grif take the hit on this one, and rolled his eyes. “You left us a list of rules _three pages long_. Simmons probably still has it! You’re a fucking helicopter parent.”

Tucker stood and stalked over to Grif. Church leaned back on the couch, prepared to enjoy the show. This was the kind of bullshit he could enjoy, unlike the pizza argument.

“I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t get seven cavities like a kid in his class. I told you not to give him any fucking soda. I’d actually had him convinced that soda was only available for holidays and parties and you fucked it up.”

“Well, there’s your problem. You’re lying to your kid. And not even a _good_ lie, like the Tooth Fairy.”

“What about the Tooth Fairy?” Caboose asked. He sighed. “I miss her. She used to leave me the nicest letters after I lost a tooth.”

Grif made a face and said quickly, “Nothing, Caboose.” Apparently for all his earlier talk, he wasn’t willing to destroy Caboose’s happiness. Church didn’t blame him. It’d be like kicking a puppy _and_ stealing candy from a baby at the same time.

“So, does the twenty-fourth work for everyone?” Simmons asked.

Church felt a rush of sympathy for him, trying in vain to stop the inevitable train wreck of the meeting. “It works for me. Caboose, we're going to the neurologist together that morning, right? I'll drive you to Harrington House after we get ice cream.”

“Okay!” Caboose said cheerfully.    

Grif shrugged. “Yeah, works for me.”

"I have a spa day with Doc, but we should be done by five," Donut said. 

Sarge frowned but finally grunted in agreement.

“Great! I’ll hop on Twitter ASAP and let everyone know!” Vic said. “Sayonara, dudes!”

Church felt a moment's relief that they’d managed to get through the meeting without too much idiocy. Then Sarge sat down next to him. His relief soured to resignation. The other man was still scowling, stewing over some paranoid and made-up injustice.

“I know your game, zoomie.”

It was usually best not to engage with Sarge, but Church couldn’t help himself. Besides, he was curious about whatever insane Air Force conspiracy theory Sarge had brewing in his head. “Oh yeah, jarhead? You’ve figured me out?”

“I demand that Lopez film the anniversary episode!” Sarge looked grimly triumphant when Church blinked. “I won’t have any of your flyboy fanboys making it all about you Blues. That last kid cut out some of my best one-liners! Even that reporter made it seem like Tucker and Caboose came up with the ghost hunting idea together!”  

"Actually, I thought she made it sound like your idea," Church started, and then shrugged. It wasn't worth arguing over. “Sure, whatever. Is Lopez available?”

Sarge frowned. From his expression, the thought that Lopez might be unavailable had never crossed his mind. “I’m sure if he's busy, he'll make time to support us. The boy loves our show.”

Church seriously doubted that. He didn’t speak Spanish, but Lopez’s tone as he muttered from behind his camera never sounded complimentary. He probably just stuck it out for the money and exposure. “If you say so.”  

“Come on, let’s go,” Tucker said.

Church looked up just in time to get smacked in the face with his jacket. He pulled it off his head as Tucker dropped his satchel in his lap. He blinked. "Not that I wouldn't like to leave before these losers start arguing over pizza, but what?"

"Let's go," Tucker repeated. When Church didn't move, he added, "Come on, I promised Junior you'd read him a story tonight."

"Uh." Church had missed something. He didn't remember that discussion. He stood, the jacket dangling loosely in his grip. His head felt clear today, but he thought back carefully, probing his memory for any potential gaps. "Since when am I going to your house?"

Tucker looked at him like he was an idiot. Upon further inspection, everyone was looking at Church the same way. At least Tucker sounded a little fond as he said, "Seriously?"

Church supposed he did have a habit of crashing at Tucker's house after these meetings. Still, it was a habit, not a fucking tradition. There wasn't any call for everyone to look at him like that. It was a nice night. He'd actually walked the five blocks to Grif's apartment. He could've been planning on walking home again. Still, he imagined Junior's disappointed face if Tucker went home and told him Church wasn't coming. Plus he'd found a picture book at the Hockessin Book Shelf that he thought Junior might like. And it would be better than going home to his empty apartment and fret like a dumbass at Tex's photo on his fridge. 

"Yeah, okay," he said. "We're not waiting around for pizza?" 

“Junior’s regular babysitter has the flu,” Tucker explained. He made a face. "She recommended this girl, but I want--"

Grif interrupted him with a laugh. “Fucking helicopter parent.” He grinned when Tucker gave him the finger. “Search your heart, Tucker. You know I’m right.”

“Have a good night, you two!” Donut said. It should’ve sounded innocent, but somehow he managed to turn it into an innuendo.

Church sighed. “Good night, Donut.” 

 

* * *

 

They were almost to Tucker's house when Church swore. "Oh, goddamnit. I forgot to ask Simmons and Grif about that fucking remix." 

Tucker grinned. "The one they made for Caboose? Yeah, that shit's hilarious."

Church narrowed his eyes. He studied Tucker's amused face in the faint glow of the dashboard lights. A suspicion crept over him. "You have a copy, don't you," he said flatly.  

Tucker looked unapologetic. "Dude, we _all_ have copies. I would've made it my ringtone, except we had a bet going on how long it would take you to find out." He frowned. "Shit, I owe Donut ten bucks." 

"You guys are all assholes," Church said. 

"Yeah, but you love us anyway," Tucker said confidently as he pulled into the driveway.

Junior darted out of the house and towards the car, a small, dark blur of movement. Tucker barely managed to get his door open before Junior was in his lap, flinging his arms around Tucker's neck. He chattered happily. From what words Church understood, he pieced together that the replacement babysitter had introduced Junior to either a new game or book. Tucker nodded as Junior spoke, and when he finally paused for breath, said, "Sounds like you didn't miss Katie too much. I think you forgot about someone though." 

Junior blinked, and then looked over at Church. His face lit up. Church swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat as Junior said, "Hi, Uncle Church!" The kid crawled across the car, reaching out for a hug, and Tucker said quickly, "Junior, watch the knee--" before he made a pained noise. 

Church laughed and ruffled the curls on the top of Junior's fade. "Be careful with your dad, Junior. You don't want to be an only child, do you?" 

Junior gave him the look reserved for when he thought Church was being weird, but hugged him anyway. 

Tucker caught his breath and hauled Junior out of the car. He pinned a squirming Junior against his side with one arm as he reached in and turned off the car. "Come on. You need to get ready for bed so Church can read to you." 

"Pete the Cat?" Junior asked hopefully. That came out clearly despite the speech impediment. The faint porch light caught his dubious look when Church said, "Actually, buddy, I bought a new book for you. I think you'll like it. It's fun _and_ scientifically accurate." 

Tucker laughed. "Yeah, good luck with that," he said dryly. "But we came home early, so maybe we can read  _two_ books." 

Church knew Tucker hadn't meant that the way it had sounded, like his house was Church's home too. The teasing words still made something twinge in his chest. All he had waiting for him back at his empty apartment was some furniture, a few photos, and his consuming worry about Tex. He couldn't let himself think of Tucker's spare bedroom as home unless he wanted to turn into the same needy asshole that she had dumped. He made a show of flipping his satchel open and pulling out the book. Junior's eyes widened in interest. When Church was sure that his voice wouldn't sound strange, he said, "I chose something awesome. I bet you'll want to read it  _twice._ What do you think?" 

Junior made a doubtful noise in his throat, a weird little growl. He grabbed the book and squinted at the cover. "Maybe. Thank you, Uncle Church." He laughed and squirmed as Tucker half-carried him towards the house, either pretending or actually staggering under his weight. 

Church watched them, pretending like it wasn't only a matter of time before he fucked up their friendship somehow. Then he climbed out of the car and followed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the Harrington House is fictional, all of the other haunted sites [exist](http://www.hauntedplaces.org/wilmington-de/).


	3. not guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was raining on the morning of the anniversary special, coming down hard enough that Caboose climbed into Church’s car with a dripping Hello Kitty umbrella and muddy rain boots, slung his overnight bag in the backseat, and proceeded to hum “I’m Singing in the Rain” cheerfully off-key the entire ride to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the latest chapter! I hope you all enjoy the Reds and Blues being, uh, very much themselves. 
> 
> Warnings for discussion of medical issues and various trauma.

It was raining on the morning of the anniversary special, coming down hard enough that Caboose climbed into Church’s car with a dripping Hello Kitty umbrella and muddy rain boots, slung his overnight bag in the backseat, and proceeded to hum “I’m Singing in the Rain” cheerfully off-key the entire ride to the hospital.  

 

 

It wasn’t the best start to the day, but it wasn’t the worst. Weather forecasters predicted the storm would pass by late afternoon, and the temperature was in the sixties, so at least they wouldn’t be filming in the cold rain. Plus, Church had gotten an early morning email from Tex that she’d be stateside in a few weeks. He felt almost good, until the neurologist looked at Caboose and started talking in that neutral voice doctors used whenever they gave unpleasant news. 

They went out for ice cream afterward, because Church had promised and because he’d lost the argument that Caboose should just skip the anniversary special. He ate his mechanically, his anger and guilt a tight tangle in his chest, as Caboose devoured three servings and laughed through each bout of brain freeze.

Finally, Church drove up the winding driveway towards the Harrington House in the darkening twilight. He itched for a fight. He wished there was any chance of actually meeting a ghost so he could punch it. The clear skies just made him angrier. They still had to film in the damp, which always made everyone’s old injuries flare up. Grif’s legs and Donut’s scars were probably bothering them the worst. 

Church hadn’t had a headache earlier, but he had one now, his head pounding like it was clamped in a vise. At least Caboose was oblivious, his face pressed against the window as he stared at the mansion. Lights glowed in a handful of windows. It gave the house a strangely occupied feeling, as though the Reds and Blues would be greeted by Mrs. Harrington herself once they arrived at the front door. 

“It _is_ blue!” Caboose said, delighted, his voice a little muffled by the glass. “Well, some of it. Wow, it’s really big….”  

“Six stories and a shitload of rooms,” Church agreed flatly. He parked beside Grif’s Datsun, the old car shining like an obnoxious orange beacon. He rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to loosen them. “Come on, rookie. Everyone’s waiting.” 

Even the sight of Tucker FaceTiming Junior didn’t put a dent in Church’s anger. “Night, Junior. Doc, don’t let him talk you into staying up late,” Tucker said, and tucked his phone away. He grinned at Church and Caboose as they approached. “Well, look who finally showed up. Donut was about to start without you.” 

Church almost snapped at him, but Donut spoke first. “Just because I got a _little_ heated and called them dilly-dalliers doesn’t mean I was suggesting that we do the show without them, Tucker! But now that everyone’s here, let’s get started.” He turned a smile on the camera. “Since this is our first anniversary special, I thought we might have some virgins who need a lesson or two from yours truly!” 

“Sure, Simmons does, but we need to keep this shit PG-13,” drawled Grif. He grinned. “Besides, Doc might object.” 

Simmons turned red and glared. “Shut up, Grif. What Donut meant was that we should probably introduce ourselves for new viewers.” He bared his teeth awkwardly at the camera. On any other night, Church would’ve been amused by the way Simmons forgot how to smile whenever he stood in front of a camera. “So, um, to any newcomers, welcome to _Fighting Ghosts_! If you don’t know who we are, we’re a group of retired soldiers who decided to find--”

“--and fight!” Sarge supplied. His tone of voice made Church hope that he’d already been checked for loaded weapons. 

Simmons sighed. “--and fight ghosts.”

Church let Simmons explain the group’s history and introduce everyone, not really listening. He watched Caboose instead, whose lips moved like he was counting all the windows. When the camera panned over to Church, he forced a smile.

Tucker snorted. “That’s Church. And yes, before you ask in the comment section, he always looks like something crawled up his ass. You get used to it.”   

The knot of anger in Church’s chest tightened. “Fuck off,” he said, sharply enough that the grin dropped off Tucker’s face. 

“Uh,  I was joking. Did something actually crawl up your ass?” 

The camera swung back and forth, Lopez apparently unsure who to focus on as the cameraman muttered, “Estupendo. Ni siquiera hemos comenzado el estúpido show y ya hay drama.” _Great. We haven't even started the stupid show and there's already drama._

Everyone else was staring, even Caboose, who studied Church with that focused look he wore sometimes when he was about to say something incredibly stupid or profound. Church wanted to shake him, or maybe put him in one of those stupid human-sized bubbles. Guilt curdled his stomach. When Lopez stepped closer, he barely restrained himself from knocking the camera out of his hands. Even his jaw ached now, and he felt angry enough to explode. 

“Can I just have a shitty day and not have to explain it to the goddamn world?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Grif said, exchanging a look with Tucker. “But you’re acting even bitchier than usual.” The entire group had pretty shitty poker faces, which was why Tex cleaned them out during her rare visits. Church saw the exact second when Grif remembered that Church and Caboose had come from the hospital. “What did the doctor say?”  

“Oh, she told us about the seizures,” Caboose explained matter-of-factly. 

Church could feel everyone react, even if no one said anything. 

He watched Tucker, whose brown skin had a sudden grayish tinge. Tucker’s gaze flickered between Church and Caboose before it settled on Church. “Seizures,” he said into the tense silence, his voice flat. “And you weren’t going to tell us about them?” 

“Well, you know Church isn’t good at talking when he’s mad,” Caboose said before Church could figure out how to answer. “He just yells a lot and it’s kinda hard to understand him, even when you're really, really trying.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why he’s so mad. Small seizures are better than the big ones, right? Though I have to get more tests and maybe new medicine.” He turned to Church, his eyes wide. “Are you mad because you know I don’t like tests? Aww, Church!” 

The rest of the group seemed to shake themselves out of their worried stupor. Simmons stepped forward, his voice squeaking a little as he asked, “Caboose, you’ve been having seizures? How frequently? What did the doctor say?”  

“Are you sure you’re up for fighting ghosts, son?” Sarge asked. Concern was a strange look on his face. “Ghosts will use any advantage they have. You shouldn’t be here if you’re not in fighting shape.”

Tucker didn’t say a word, just grabbed Church’s arm and dragged him away from the others, his fingers digging in hard enough that there’d probably be bruises tomorrow. Church was too surprised to object even as Tucker towed him back to the cars.  

There Tucker let him go and then just looked at him for a second. The fading light and lone lamp set in the middle of the parking lot made it hard to read his expression. “Church, how long have we been friends?” 

Church blinked. “Uh,” he said. Embarrassment joined his anger and guilt. He knew exactly when they’d become friends. One day at therapy Church had had a spectacular meltdown over Tex putting herself in danger yet again while he sat around with brain damage and a thumb up his ass. Tucker had called him a pussy and been scolded by Doc during the session. That night, though, he’d shown up at Church’s door with an offer to listen him bitch about his ex and a twelve-pack of beer. Somehow during the ensuing drinking and exchange of insults, they’d become friends. He had a feeling Tucker would think it was weird if he offered that much detail, though, so he shrugged. “Since a month or two after I started the group therapy, I guess.”

Tucker nodded. “Right. So I’m speaking from experience when I say you’re being a fucking dumb-ass.”

“Excuse me?” All of the embarrassment was gone, and Church was furious again. He glared. “I’m upset over Caboose having seizures and you’re calling me a dumb-ass for it? Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you,” Tucker said. Now he sounded angry too. “I know exactly what you were going to do tonight. You were going to pull your martyr bullshit, sulk and act like Caboose’s seizures are your fault--”

Church was so angry he couldn’t breathe. His fists trembled, and he clung to what little self-control he had left and didn’t punch Tucker in his face like he wanted. He swallowed and said thickly, around the tightness in his throat, “Of course they’re my fault. I was flying the goddamn plane.” 

“The experimental plane? The plane that had a catastrophic failure in both engines and fell apart at the seams? _That_ fucking plane? Yeah, definitely your fault, and not some engineer's mistake.” Tucker paused. He looked at Church in a way that made Church’s anger retreat just enough that he could actually focus on the quiet, slightly rueful way Tucker said, “I read the report, Church. What happened sucks, but you couldn’t have stopped that plane from crashing. No one blames you except you.”  

Church opened his mouth to protest. Tucker wouldn't say that if he'd been there, if he'd heard the astonished way Caboose had said, "Church, are we going to crash?" just before the second engine had failed and they'd dropped like a stone towards the ocean. His breath caught, and any argument died unsaid as Tucker kept talking, in a slow, relentless way that suggested Tucker was going to say his piece no matter what, and Church was just going to have to stand there and listen. Which he supposed he was, he thought, as he stood there and let Tucker’s low voice wash over him. It was an easier thing to bear than memories of harsh sea spray and Caboose's desperate hand tight in his.   

“You’re not God, Church. Or that guy with the world on his shoulders. Give yourself a break. You saved Caboose’s life. You both got fucked up during it, but you’re alive. And while we’re talking about your stupid guilt complex, Tex isn’t your problem either. Yeah, you care about her, yeah you’re always going to worry, but Jesus Christ, dude. She’s a grown-ass bitch who can kill all of us with her pinky and who makes her own fucking decisions. So stop with this bullshit, okay? That crash wasn’t your fault. If anything happens to Tex, that won’t be your fault either. Just try to chill for once.”

Tucker paused, breathing fast. He took a deep breath and added, “Besides, Caboose is our friend too. Whatever the tests say, we’ve got his back. Now get your brain to stop being a fuckweasel, or I’ll tell Doc you’re ‘falling into bad patterns’ again. I’m sure he’s got some feel-good shit about positive thinking.” Tucker’s voice took on a weird tone. “Church, I think you underestimate the value of the emotional support your friends can provide! We all care about you, so these self-destructive habits are--”

“Jesus, _stop_ ,” Church groaned when he realized Tucker was doing a terrible impression of Doc. He tried to stay angry. He wanted to argue that he could’ve done something, but his head pounded and exhaustion was winning out over his anger and guilt. Plus, the impression _was_ funny. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. Despite himself, he laughed a little. “You’re going to rat me out to Doc? You do that, and I’ll tell Grif’s sister. Snitches get stitches, remember?” 

When he put his glasses back on, Tucker was studying him, searching his face to see if his words had registered. Apparently satisfied that Church wasn’t still being a so-called martyr, he snorted and said, “I’m not afraid of Kai.”  

“That’s not what Grif says.” 

“Fuck Grif.” Tucker raised his voice and shouted, “Hey, Grif! Are you talking shit behind my back?” 

“Uh, yeah?” Grif’s distant voice called back. “All the time, dude.” 

As Tucker used both hands to flip Grif off, something finally registered. Church narrowed his eyes. “Wait. How the fuck did you read that report? It’s classified.” 

Tucker looked smug. “I have friends in high places.”

Church sighed. “Wash slipped you the file.” 

“Wash slipped me the file,” Tucker agreed. He looked at Church again. The moment lingered just long enough to be uncomfortable before Tucker smiled a little and said, “So, are you done being a dumb-ass?”

Church pretended to think about it. “I don’t know, that impression of Doc was traumatizing in its own right. I think I might need some therapy just to get over that crap.” He pitched his voice to match Tucker’s attempt at Doc. “Emotional support from your friends is just one important building block in your foundation of good mental health!”  

Tucker squinted. “I was bullshitting, but that actually sounds something Doc would say. Also screw you. Junior loves my impressions. He says they’re awesome.” 

Church laughed again. It was easier this time, with the mental image of Junior staring wide-eyed and amazed as Tucker did impressions. “Buddy, I’ve got bad news for you. Right now Junior thinks the sun shines out of your ass. Wait until he’s a teenager. Then he’ll tell you that your impressions are the saddest shit he’s ever seen.” 

“Nah, that kid will always think I’m awesome,” Tucker said confidently. He reached out and pushed Church's glasses back up his nose. Church went still beneath the unexpected touch, but Tucker didn't seem to notice. He reached further and ruffled Church's hair. “Come on, loser. Let’s go hunt some ghosts.” 

"Yeah," Church said after a second, swallowing. 

"Done with your lover's quarrel?" Grif drawled as they returned. He looked at Church, his eyes filled with concern even if his voice dripped sarcasm. "I'm guessing the doctor gave the okay for Caboose to do the show. Since you didn't wrap him up in his sleeping bag and drop him at his mom's doorstep."

"He can do this," Church said. The doctor had looked dubious, but when Church had explained that Caboose would cry if he didn't get to join the group for ghost hunting, she'd sighed and given permission. "We should still keep an eye on him."

"Aww, I love you too, Church!" Caboose said cheerfully. 

Church sighed. "Caboose, did I say love? Don't put goddamn words in my mouth." 

"Okay," Caboose said, oblivious. "Then I'll keep an eye on you too." He tried to wink knowingly and failed, his face scrunched up and both eyes blinking in rapid succession.

Only the previous knowledge from Caboose's sisters that he hadn't mastered winking before he'd joined the service kept Church from being concerned that it was a seizure symptom. "Whatever," he said. His head still ached. He fished out a pill bottle from his jacket pocket and dry-swallowed a painkiller. Then he looked at Lopez's camera. He'd probably looked like a tool, snarling at everyone. He grimaced. "I'll tell Sheila to cut most of that during edit. Let's just have Simmons do the introductions again and go from there." It said something that no one disagreed. Church really must've looked like an asshole.  

"Sheila?" Caboose repeated excitedly. He glanced around, as though their video editor might appear from around a corner. "Maybe she should come next time. She's so nice, I bet all the ghosts would want to talk to her." 

"Maybe she should," Church said, watching Lopez from the corner of his eye. 

Lopez's blank expression didn't change, but he broke out into a nervous sweat. It was hilarious how unflappable the man was except when it came to his crush on Sheila. Church felt some of his earlier good mood return as Lopez shuffled his feet and said nothing.  

"Right," Simmons said, clearing his throat. He aimed his weird constipated grimace towards the camera. He repeated the introductions, and this time Church didn't fuck it up. 

When Simmons finished, Tucker grinned. Unlike the former Marine, he was a natural in front of the camera, leaning in and saying in a confidential tone, "You heard Sarge before. We're here to fight ghosts. So far that's been pretty difficult, because first we have to prove ghosts exist. Some of us believe that we will--" 

Here he paused to gesture at Donut, Sarge, and Caboose, the latter of whom said cheerfully, "If Casper's watching, hello! We're going to come to England and meet you next year!"  

"Sure, Caboose," Tucker said after a beat of awkward silence. "Some of us don't believe in ghosts at all, and are just here to be buzzkills." 

"Hey," Simmons said, offended, as Tucker pointed at him and Church. "I'm not trying to be a buzzkill. I simply believe that scientific technology has advanced significantly enough that if there were ghosts, we would have proof by now--"

"Ugh, you got him started. Damn it, Tucker," Grif said. "Simmons, save that shit for your blog." 

Tucker looked at Church. "Are you going to try to pretend you're not a buzzkill too?" 

Church shook his head. "No. I think I've made it clear that I don't believe in ghosts. I'm just here for the money. I'm ditching all of you assholes the second Vic lands me a better gig."  

"Love you too, asshole," Tucker said, grinning a little. He turned back to the camera. "Finally, some of us don't give a shit either way, and are just here to have some fun." 

This time he pointed at himself and Grif, who snorted and said, "You call this fun? Listening to static as Donut claims it's the ghost trying to flirt with him?"

"It's not my fault ghosts are obsessed with me," Donut said with a sniff. "Doc says I have a compelling aura." 

Grif ignored him, adding, "Or hearing Sarge offer me as a sacrifice to every fucking ghost or demon he thinks he's found? Nah, dude. I'm just here because if we do prove ghosts are real, I want one-seventh of the reward money." 

Church blinked. He turned towards Grif, who actually looked sincere. "Reward money? What reward money?" 

Grif gave him a look. "Dude, you said you were here for the money. How do you not fucking know this? There's like two million dollars worth of reward money for whoever can first prove ghosts are real. Rich dudes have been waving Benjamins since like the 1920s trying to get proof." 

Church absorbed this. "Well, fuck. Now I guess I'm actually invested."

"You heard him, folks," Grif said sarcastically. "After one year and twenty-five fucking episodes of hunting down ghosts, Church finally gives a shit. And hey, maybe this will make the difference! Maybe it's like Tinkerbell, and we just needed one more fucking person to believe in ghosts to tip the scales." 

Church flipped him off.   

"Anyway!" Simmons said loudly and pointedly. "For our one-year anniversary, we've stuck to our ghost-hunting roots and stayed in Wilmington. We're about to enter the Harrington House, famous for its strange construction and frequent ghost sightings." He waved a hand at the mansion. As Simmons spoke, he relaxed a little, too focused on the history of the place to remember to be nervous about the camera. "The original mansion was built between 1880-1882 by Samuel Harrington for his new wife Amelia. Harrington had made his dubious fortune during the Civil War by being the 19th century equivalent of an arms-dealer, allegedly selling weapons to both sides. The first house was built in the Jacobean Revival style of the Gilded Age, with Pennsylvania Bluestone giving the mansion its distinctive hue. It's said that blue was Mrs. Harrington's favorite color. The first mansion had three stories and forty rooms, and was surrounded by 30 acres of landscaped garden, a respectable millionaire's house at the time. How it grew to this behemoth you see is why we're here today." 

"Shortly after construction was complete, the Harringtons moved in," Donut explained. He sighed. "Unfortunately for our newlyweds, all wasn't perfect in paradise. Harrington had married late in life and was desperate to have an heir. Amelia's diaries suggest that she had at least seven miscarriages over the next decade, trying to give Harrington a son." He shuddered, looking vaguely queasy at the thought of what the woman had gone through. Either that, or he was horrified by the implication of that much straight sex.  

Simmons nodded. "Finally in 1891, she had twins, Sarah and Peter. Harrington had the son he'd always wanted." His voice turned slightly bitter on the last sentence before it reverted to its lecturing tone. "But tragedy struck six years later. The children and their nurse were taking a rowboat around the pond when it somehow overturned. The nurse drowned. Gardeners rescued the children, but neither one was expected to survive. Harrington had been away on business. When word reached him of the accident, he demanded to return home immediately." 

"No one's sure what happened next," Church said with a shrug. "Maybe his chauffeur was speeding. Maybe some animal ran in front of the car. Whatever happened, they crashed and died instantly. A day later Sarah died, having never regained consciousness." 

"Peter lived though!" Caboose said cheerfully. "Well, for a little while." 

"He died in World War I, one of our countries' first flyboys," Tucker said with a grin.

Sarge growled. "That ain't important to the story! Mrs. Harrington had lost her daughter and her husband in just two days. When you have a tragedy like that, you start asking hard questions. Mrs. Harrington took herself to a medium, who told her that her family was cursed. Samuel Harrington had sold weapons to both sides during the war, and all those soldiers' blood was on his traitorous hands. The only way to appease them and protect herself and her boy was to make a home large enough for all those spirits." 

"Does this sound familiar?" Church asked. "It should, because it's pretty much the same goddamn thing a medium told Mrs. Winchester, widow of the dude who made the Winchester rifles. Pause the video and go take a look at the Winchester Mystery House on Wikipedia. That shit's wild." 

"Though at least Mrs. Harrington didn't have to move across the country like Mrs. Winchester!" Donut interjected brightly. "She was able to add on to her original home, and construction began in late 1898. She didn't keep an architect on staff for more than a month or two at a time, most of them quitting in protest, so the house is known for doors that open to six-story drops, stairs that go nowhere, and an eclectic mix of architectural styles. Some say all the different architecture clashes, but I like her originality!" 

Grif shrugged. "We don't know why mediums apparently had a hard-on for architecture. Maybe they had a secret relationship with local construction companies or whoever the fuck built houses back then. Fuck, maybe all of it's bullshit and Mrs. Winchester and Mrs. Harrington were just rich bitches who hated each other and made it a competition on who could build the crazier house." 

"My vote's for Harrington," Tucker said. "Though only because her house didn't get knocked almost flat by an earthquake." 

Simmons didn't roll his eyes, but it was clearly a close call. "And some have argued a lot of the construction was meant to help with various disabilities. Both women suffered from nearly immobilizing arthritis, and the narrow stairs made it easier for them to move through the house. Mrs. Harrington didn't trust new technology, and declined to have three elevators like Mrs. Winchester, opting for a single one used only by staff and now out of use. Whatever the case, by the time Mrs. Harrington died in 1925, the Harrington House had grown to six stories and one hundred and fifteen rooms."

"With a lot of ghosts living in it!" Caboose said. "So I guess it was a home for them after all." He looked pensive, or at least as pensive as Caboose could get. "Though it's mostly the family and not Civil War ghosts. I wonder where all the other ghosts went." 

Simmons said, "There have been a few reports of Civil War ghosts haunting the premises, but Caboose is, uh, right in saying that people mostly claim to have seen the Harrington family. Over the years, there have been reported sightings of Sarah in her bedroom, Peter in the dining room or the stables, the nurse weeping by the pond, Mrs. Harrington in the study, and even Mr. Harrington and his chauffeur finally returning to the house."

"A century late and a dollar short," Church said, and frowned when half of the group groaned. "What? That was clever." 

"No, it wasn't," Tucker said. 

"Fuck you," Church said conversationally. He looked at the camera. "Tonight, we're going to try and see if we can make contact with these ghosts." He smiled, the last of his dark mood temporarily lifting. It would come back, of course, once this ghost hunting trip was over and it was just him keeping company with his guilty memories. Still, the rest of the night might be fun. Especially if he got to watch Sarge try to fight the non-existent ghost of Peter Harrington. "Both for the money and because Sarge wants to fight a World War I flyboy."

Sarge chuckled, shaking his head. "You say that like it's a bad plan. I aim to show that ghost who is the real soldier here."

"You mean the guy who actually died for his country?" Grif said in a thoughtful tone. Sarge glared.  

Simmons elbowed Grif into silence, or at least into a muttered grumble. Then he put on an encouraging look. "You'll defeat that flyboy if you find him, sir!"

"Yeah, Sarge! You can take him! Take him hard!" 

" _Goddamnit_ , Donut."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Winchester Mystery House](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winchester_Mystery_House) is amazing, and I also recommend the Buzzfeed Unsolved [episode](https://youtube.com/watch?v=Mx8JkGHaGUI). Grif's joke about [reward money](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_prizes_for_evidence_of_the_paranormal) is also true. 
> 
> I used a lot of other 19th century mansions as inspiration for the Harrington House. Learned a lot about sandstone and its varieties. Yet another thing to tuck away in my niche knowledge mental folder thanks to fandom.
> 
> ...Also Please enjoy this image of Grif's car that I spent 20 minutes Googling for a single sentence cameo: an [orange monstrosity](https://i0.wp.com/carsforsale.sportscardigest.com/wp-content/uploads/240Z.jpg?ssl=1) of a 1972 Datsun Z.


	4. die every night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Where's the dining room?" Sarge asked. When Church glanced over, Sarge had the other camcorder strapped on his head. It looked ridiculous. Church caught his lower lip between his teeth, repressing laughter as the camcorder turned towards him. Church wondered if he should point out to Sarge that the camera wasn't on. "That flyboy ghost and I need to have a little discussion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, plot is happening and I guess I accidentally wrote this entire chapter in two days? Stuff's about to get real!

Caboose bounded up towards the front door. "I want to meet Sarah!"

"Rookie, wait!" Church called as Donut caught Caboose by the hood of his sweatshirt and gently but firmly pulled him back down the steps. "We have to get our equipment ready, remember?"

"Oh, right," Caboose said, with a visible lack of enthusiasm. Church didn't really blame him. This was probably the most boring part of the show, listening to Sarge and Donut wax poetic about ghost hunting equipment that was ninety-nine percent likely to be a scam, and to Simmons awkwardly insert advertising for their sponsors.

Strangely, Simmons seemed the most excited this time. "Actually, we have some new equipment this week, thanks to a generous discount by GhoSt Augustine, a Florida company that sells paranormal gear. We've been using their K2 meter since pretty much the beginning, which has led to some, uh, heated discussions--"

"Yeah, because it's bullshit," Church said. The camera pointed at him. Belatedly remembering that the company kept giving them free or otherwise heavily discounted equipment, he added, "No offense to GhoSt Augustine. Their products are really well made."

Simmons bent and pulled a camcorder with straps from a case that Church hadn't noticed earlier. Caboose brightened, seeing something to play with, but Donut kept a steady grip on his hoodie. Oblivious to the danger the new equipment was in, Simmons said, "And really interesting! We have two new GoPro cameras, which are full spectrum and high definition camcorders that can be strapped to people's head or chest. With three cameras, we have a greater chance of catching anything supernatural. GhoSt Augustine says that they've seen a lot more interest in paranormal investigation thanks to the show, so they're also offering a 10% discount to anyone who uses the code fightingghosts on their site when making a purchase for the entire month of November." He glanced around. "Who wants one?"

"I do," Caboose, Tucker, and Sarge said together.

Sarge glared, bristling. Outrage flushed his face. "Why in the Sam Hill should the Blues have two cameras?" He jerked a thumb at Donut and Simmons. "We'll find any ghosts tonight!"

Tucker snorted. "Dude, a) you already have Lopez, and b) we're totally finding a ghost first. Peter and I are going to be buddies." He paused. "Though he _is_ a ghost from the 1800s. He might be racist. In which case, most of us are fucked."

Grif laughed. "Man, most ghosts are probably racist. Was that supposed to be a revelation or something?" He casually flipped off the house, calling, "Hey, ghosts, fuck your white superiority bullshit!"

"Grif!" Donut hissed. "Don't antagonize the ghosts! First impressions are important!"

Sarge brushed that remark aside. "Eh, let him rile them up. They'll attack him first. Lopez and I can catch it all on our cameras!"

"Who knows, with time we might be able to afford to get _everyone_ cameras," Simmons said, still weirdly cheerful. "Wouldn't that be great?"

Lopez's eyes narrowed. "Sé lo que estás haciendo, pero no funcionará. No puedes reemplazarme. Ninguno de ustedes sabe cómo usar una cámara. ¿Entiendes la iluminación y los ángulos?" _I know what you're doing, but it won't work. You can't replace me. None of you know how to use a camera. Do you understand lighting and angles?_

"You're right, Lopez," Donut said with a sigh. "I can't believe Simmons forgot the selfie sticks either."

Sarge slapped Lopez on the shoulder and said cheerfully, "That seems like a poor use of our money, Simmons! Why get everyone cameras when we have Lopez right here? The boy's going places! Just wait, he's going to be filming one of those Hollywood movies one of these days."

It was Simmons' turn for his eyes to narrow, but he was distracted by Caboose slipping out of Donut's grasp and reaching for the camcorder. Simmons cradled the camera protectively against his chest. "Uh, Caboose, maybe let Tucker use it tonight?"

"Sweet," Tucker said as Caboose sighed. He took the camcorder and held it up, studying it for a second. Then he said thoughtfully, "So this can be strapped to your head or your chest, but technically you could strap it anywhere, right?"

Simmons looked confused. "I mean, probably, but--" He stopped and groaned in disgust as Tucker, grinning, pantomimed positioning the camera at his waist. "You know what, I think Church should use it for the Blues."

"Uh, no," Church said. He waved it away when Tucker held it up, still grinning. "That sounds too much like actual work."

"Come on, man, do you really trust Caboose with it?" Tucker asked.

"Fuck no. The only person I trust with a camera is Lopez. Just let Sarge and Donut wear them or something."

Sarge glowered. "So the Blues can have Lopez? Over my dead body! He may just be a cameraman, but his heart bleeds red, not blue! He'll never willingly work with you dirty zoomies over me! Tell them, Lopez."

"Odio a todos aquí. Solo estoy haciendo esto por el dinero y la exposición." _I hate everyone here. I am just doing this for the money and exposure._

"Exactly!" Sarge said triumphantly.

"Jesus Christ. I'll do it if everyone promises to shut the fuck up," Church said. It was taking way too long for the painkiller to kick in. He rubbed at his forehead and then took the camcorder. He slid the straps over his shoulders, pulling the camcorder against his chest and pressing the power button. Then he reached for the buckles at the back.

"Having trouble?" Tucker asked after a minute.

"Fuck you," Church said, fumbling with the last few buckles. "I'd like to see you try."

"Dude, it's just like handling a bra," Tucker said. He smirked. "Or maybe Tex never let you touch any of hers."

Church froze as Tucker's hand settled between his shoulder-blades. There was a series of quiet clicks as Tucker closed the buckles. Church's mouth was dry at the feel of Tucker's palm through his light jacket. This day seemed designed to torment him. He tried to think of a retort. "Yeah, but I took them off Tex. This would be like trying to wear one."

"It can't be _that_ hard," Tucker said dismissively. His hand lifted, and then Church fought back a shiver as Tucker slid a finger under one of the shoulder straps, untwisting it. "There."

"Uh, thanks," Church said, clearing his throat. It both was and wasn't a relief when Tucker finally stepped out of his personal space.

"Where's the dining room?" Sarge asked. When Church glanced over, Sarge had the other camcorder strapped on his head. It looked ridiculous. Church caught his lower lip between his teeth, repressing laughter as the camcorder turned towards him. Church wondered if he should point out to Sarge that the camera wasn't on. "That flyboy ghost and I need to have a little discussion."

Tucker grinned. "If we get to choose ghosts, I'm finding that nurse. It sounds like she needs a little comfort, if you know what I mean."

The words were like a bucket of cold water. Church rolled his eyes, both irritated and amused. "Tucker, for the millionth time, you can't fuck a ghost."

"You don't know that. Stop being a buzzkill."

"Church is right," Donut said. "You've heard the way ghosts talk to me. Doc would be beating ghosts off left and right if they could get physical!"

"Beat the ghosts off _of_ you if they could-- You know what, forget it," Simmons said through gritted teeth. "But those recordings were inconclusive."

"Were they, Simmons, _were_ they?"

"Yes!"

"Now can I go see Sarah?" Caboose asked, the interruption plaintive. He squirmed in place like a kid waiting in front of a candy store, wearing a hopeful look that was impossible to resist.

Church shrugged. "Yeah, sure, just--"

Caboose took off.

"...Stay with the group," Church finished with a defeated sigh. He glanced at Tucker. "Come on, let's make sure he doesn't fall down any stairs." It would've been a joke before the hospital visit; now Church felt a spike of worry. Who knew how those seizures had affected Caboose? Worry pinched at his gut. He started towards the door and stopped at Grif's drawled, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Church squinted at Grif's shit-eating grin and then groaned as realization dawned. "Oh, fuck off." It had been a mistake to pass along Tex's joking instructions not to let him get eaten by a demon. Everyone thought it was the funniest thing they'd heard all month, and seemed happy to tease him about it forever. 

Grif laid a hand over his chest. "I don't want your ex breaking my legs for not following her instructions, Church. She is a terrifying bitch." He turned to Lopez's camera and said, mock-solemn, "Tex, I promise to stop any ghosts or demons who want to possess Church's scrawny ass."

"I promise too," Tucker said, grinning.

Sarge nodded. "Agreed. The ghosts and demons can have Grif."

"Come on, man," Grif grumbled.

Church left them to their ridiculousness. He walked into the mansion. He'd visited before, but the enormous foyer was as impressive as the first time. He glanced around at the two staircases and ornate fireplace, the black and white photographs in their gilded frames on the walls. Mrs. Harrington stared at him from the wall, her expression solemn. He didn't see or hear Caboose.

"Caboose?"

The name echoed through the space and warped, the echoes not sounding like his voice at all. He didn't believe in ghosts, but it was creepy anyway. Had anyone mentioned weird acoustics when they'd visited the mansion?

He almost jumped as the front door groaned opened behind him and Tucker wandered inside. He glanced around, whistling in appreciation. "Rich people sure know how to spend their money." He eyed Church's camcorder. "So do I need to talk about the reported ghostly incidents, or can we just let Simmons do that when they're all done arguing on where to find Peter?"

"Let Simmons," Church said. "I want to find Caboose before he gets in trouble."

They heard a distant crash, and a faint voice call, "Tucker did it!"

"Caboose, I'm right here, you fucking asshole!" Tucker yelled. "Stop blaming me for shit!"

There was a pause. "A ghost did it, and she's very sorry!"

"Christ," Tucker said, shaking his head. "Well, I hope whatever he broke wasn't expensive."

"This place is a historical museum," Church reminded him grimly. "Everything's goddamn expensive."

"Great," Tucker said. He ran a hand over his dreads and sighed. "Well, I couldn't tell where his voice was coming from. You want to take the left stairs and I'll take the right? Just text if you find him."

"Sure."

 

* * *

 

"Sheila, edit this out, but this place is goddamn creepy," Church muttered as he mounted what he was pretty sure was the final flight of stairs. His legs ached. He hadn't seen Caboose or Tucker or even anyone from the Reds since he'd gone up the first flight of stairs. So far all he'd found was a lot of empty rooms, a few locked doors, and the occasional door that opened to a fucking wall or emptiness. "I knew about all the half-finished shit, but it's like I've wandered into another fucking dimension. The only reason I know I haven't is because Tucker texted ten minutes ago to bitch about Caboose pulling a disappearing act."

He hopped the guard rope at the top of the stairs. There was a 'Being Restored - Currently Closed to the Public' notice attached to it, but Caboose wouldn't have paid attention, so Church didn't either. Then he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. His head still ached, enough that he debated taking another pill even though more than one made him loopy. Finally he straightened and looked around. He was in a long, narrow hallway. Unlike the rest of the mansion, this section seemed completely unused, the only light spilling from the window at the end of the corridor. He pulled out his phone and pulled up the flashlight app. The phone's light showed dust and a cracked mirror hanging on the wall. He could see why they were restoring this floor.

"Caboose?" he called. Again his voice did that weird echo, only this time it sounded like his own name. He scowled and rubbed at his ear. "Goddamnit, Caboose. Where the fuck are you?"

Something brushed against the nape of his neck, like someone's soft breath. He jumped a foot in the air, choking down a shriek. Then he spun, expecting to find either Tucker laughing at him or Caboose smiling.

There was no one.

"Fuck," he said to himself. He'd have to get Sheila to edit that out too. "Pull it together, dumb-ass. Old houses have drafts." He started walking further down the hall. The smell of years-old dust lingered in his nose. He cupped a hand over his mouth, trying not to cough or sneeze, and muttered, "Caboose, if you're up here, I'm going to kick your ass, seizures or not." The end of the hall broke off into two further hallways. He glanced between them hopelessly. Did this stupid place ever end? Were they going to have to call in fucking search dogs to find Caboose? Now _that_ would be a hell of an anniversary special.

"Caboose! Caboose, where are you?"

Finally another voice answered him. "Oh, hey, Church! Come see what I found!"

"Fuck," Church repeated. He closed his eyes, half-relieved, half-exasperated. "Caboose, buddy, you've got to remember to answer your fucking texts."

"Aw, you texted me?" Caboose said, delighted. Church followed the sound of his voice down the right hallway to an open door as Caboose added happily, "That's so nice. I was looking for the nursery, you know, because Sarah would probably be there, but I found this fun room instead-- oh wow. You and Tucker texted me a _lot_."

"Yeah, rookie. You kind of disappeared on us," Church said. He texted Tucker their location as he studied the room Caboose was so excited to show him. Just like the hallways, there was no light except for their respective cells. What he could see didn't look like anything special. Judging by the plainness of the walls and the small, cramped quarters, they were probably in the servant's hall. The only usual thing was the second door across the room. He thought he remembered something about servants not having closets, just a dresser to store their belongings.

Curious, he wandered over to the door, wishing that he'd thought to bring some hand wipes. The doorknob was coated with dust and rust. He eyed it and then turned towards Caboose. "What did you find?"

"This!" Caboose said, and threw something at him.

Church yelped and ducked. Whatever Caboose had thrown struck the mystery door with a dull thud and dropped next to him, rolling for a few seconds before stopping. When Church squinted, he realized that it was a ball. He sighed. "Caboose, what have we said about throwing things at people?"

"Um, to warn people first?" Caboose said, his expression falling. "Sorry." Just as quickly as he'd frowned, though, he smiled and waved a hand around the room. "It's not Sarah's room, but maybe there's another ghost!" He looked thoughtful. "I wonder if all kid ghosts know each other." His eyes widened. "Oh! Oh! Maybe they know Casper!"

"I think Europe is far even for a ghost, buddy," Church said. The cloth ball was the size of a softball and made of canvas. It was also streaked with grime. He made a face. "Here."

Caboose caught the ball against his chest. "Okay. But maybe this ghost will want to play catch!" He tossed the ball up, and watched it expectantly until it hit the ground in front of him. Then he picked it up and tried again.

"I don't think most ghosts want to play catch, Caboose," Church said, but Caboose wasn't listening. He shivered. The temperature must have started dropping outside, because the room was getting colder. He chafed at his arms, but just managed to make himself feel colder, which seemed scientifically impossible, if he remembered the science class on friction right. Caboose was oblivious, of course. He'd grown up in a tiny town where the average temperature was below freezing. Church rubbed his arms again, and groaned. "I'm so goddamn glad that I live in the age of heating and A/C. Caboose, this floor is closed to the public, and I don't think we have permission to be here. How about we go back down and see if Simmons knows where the nursery is? That's probably where you'd find Sarah."

"Aw," Caboose said. He sighed. "Okay." He tossed the ball one more time towards the ceiling.

It flew up and then started to fall, and then stopped. It hung in the air, motionless.

Church rubbed his eyes, but the ball kept floating. His sharp breath billowed from his mouth like smoke. "Uh." He wanted to reach out and find the colorless strings that must be holding the ball up, but he couldn't quite convince his arm to move. Had the guys set this up as a joke? But someone would've ruined the joke beforehand. Church had known about his surprise birthday party a month in advance because none of them could lie for shit.

It had to be a joke. "Very funny, rookie," he said, and heard the uncertainty in his voice.

"I _knew_ you wanted to play!" Caboose said happily. He clapped and held out his hands expectantly. "Now throw it back!"

"Fuck!" Church said as the ball flew towards Caboose. He finally managed to move. He stepped backwards, something jutting hard into his back. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Guys, if this is your idea of a joke, I'm gonna fucking murder all of you assholes." He realized he'd pressed himself against the doorknob to the mystery door. He grabbed for it. It seared his hand like it'd iced over. He swore again and held on. The guys could laugh at him for weeks if this turned out to be a joke. He didn't care. "Caboose, buddy, we should go."

"But he wants to play," Caboose said as he tossed the ball up again.

Church yanked the door open, his eyes fixed on the floating ball. He ducked as it suddenly flew at his head. It hummed past his ear, close enough that it ruffled his hair. His mouth felt numb, too cold to do more than mumble another curse.

"That wasn't very nice, ghost," Caboose said reproachfully. "We can't play if you're going to be mean to my best friend."

"Caboose," Church said through stiff lips. "We're leaving."

Caboose nodded, still frowning. "Okay, but maybe we should use--"

" _Now_ , Caboose!" Church yelled and stepped backwards through the door, one arm up to protect his head in case the ball ricocheted back or the ghost attacked again.

His foot came down on nothing.

 _The house is known for doors that open to six-story drops_ , Donut's cheerful voice reminded him too late.

Church didn't get a chance to say anything. He fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [GhoSt Augustine](https://ghosthuntersequipment.com/products/fs-go-pro-hero4-wht) is a real company that sells paranormal hunting equipment.


	5. reborn at dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church woke to the cold and the wet, his hands empty. His first panicked thought was that he’d lost hold of Caboose. He groped fruitlessly for Caboose’s arm or the edge of his jacket. He opened his eyes, an alarmed shout caught in his throat, and blinked in surprise at the night sky and the nearby trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in, this chapter is going to be a wild ride. 
> 
> Thanks for all your lovely comments! I'm temporarily without internet and going on vacation for the week, so I might not respond immediately, but I've been enjoying everyone's comments.

Church woke to the cold and the wet, his hands empty. His first panicked thought was that he’d lost hold of Caboose. He groped fruitlessly for Caboose’s arm or the edge of his jacket. He opened his eyes, an alarmed shout caught in his throat, and blinked in surprise at the night sky and the nearby trees.

Trees? Reality reasserted itself in fragments of fresh memory as he sat up and squinted at the blue-stoned mansion. He wasn’t lost on the ocean, clinging to Caboose and hoping that their rescue came in time. He was-- no, he _had_ been in that mansion with Caboose. Now he was outside, on the lawn. Something had happened, maybe a prank. Had he fallen, or was that just his memory of the crash mixing in with the present? He frowned, trying to remember, and rubbed at his head. It was hard to think. His head felt stuffed with cotton.  
  
“Oh, sir!” a woman said, sounding horrified. “Oh, sir, we are so dreadfully sorry.”

Church jumped. He wondered how he could’ve missed the woman kneeling beside him. She stared at him, her eyes bright with tears, though none spilled down her pale cheeks. She was wringing her hands as she said, “So dreadfully sorry. We saw your mark, and we only wanted to talk to you.”

Church glanced around, but none of the other guys showed up to save him from this weird woman. She wore an old-fashioned servant’s dress that a historical reenactor would wear, though he didn’t remember the Harrington House having any on staff. She kept staring at him, teary-eyed. He finally asked, “My mark?” just to break the uncomfortable silence.

“The one that means you can communicate with us,” the woman said, still wringing her hands. “We saw it once before, when a girl came here on a tour. We tried to talk to her, but she only ran away.” She bit her lip. “You and your friends...it’s wonderful. You _all_ have the mark! But yours was the brightest, so we decided to try to communicate. And now Joshua and I... we brought about your death instead. We are so sorry!” She raised her voice. “Joshua! Come and apologize to the gentleman!”

Church looked towards the mansion, this time more desperately. Where the fuck was everyone? If this was part of a prank, he didn’t understand the joke. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he started and swallowed back a curse as a boy’s awed voice said, “Ma, did you see how far he fell? And the _sound_ he made?”

“Joshua!” the woman said chidingly. “Don’t be rude.”

“Sorry,” came the muttered response. Then a boy about Junior’s age crouched next to Church. He wore old-fashioned clothes too, and held a familiar ball in a small, grubby hand. “Hello, mister.”

“Uh, hi,” Church said slowly. He stared at the ball. He recognized it. A fragment of memory returned: Caboose holding the ball, prepared to throw it. Still struggling to remember, he said, “Lady, I don’t know what you’re--”

“ _Church_!”

Church had heard Tucker sound like that once before, when Junior had fallen off the jungle bars and hit his head. Tucker had screamed his name like something had been ripped out of him and gone running across the playground.

Something had happened to Junior. Church scrambled to his feet. Tucker stood at the front door of the mansion, his features shadowed. “Tucker, it’s okay,” he promised, lying through his teeth. If something was wrong with Junior, nothing was all right. “What did Doc say?”

Tucker didn’t seem to hear him. He took a step forward into the moonlight.

Church’s stomach dropped at the grief in Tucker’s face. Fear strangled him. What the fuck had happened to Junior? With Doc watching over him, he should’ve been safe. He stumbled towards Tucker, the question caught in his throat.

“Church!” Tucker screamed again, and then broke into a run towards him.

Church reached out, ready to grab Tucker and hold him still long enough to hear what had happened before they went to the hospital. He started to speak, although he had no idea what he’d say--

Tucker ran through him.

It hurt. It was like being burned alive and like he’d fallen to pieces, all mixed together for one terrible instant. The agony sparked in his brain, and he remembered everything: the ball, the ghost, the door, the fall. He swayed on his feet. He didn’t want to turn and look, but he made himself anyway. “Oh shit,” he said. He closed his eyes against the ruin that had been his body as Tucker fell to his knees beside it. Apparently the dead could still feel sick, because Church’s stomach roiled and he gagged. “I… Oh fuck.”

“Sir,” the woman said, appearing suddenly at his side. She tugged at his jacket sleeve until he looked at her. Now that he knew, he could see the slight shimmer to her insubstantial form.

“How am I cold? Can ghosts throw up? _What the fuck is happening_?!”

“Your mind hasn’t accepted its death yet,” she explained. She looked down at her hands. Her expression grew distant. “You forget feelings after a while.” Then she shook her head. “Sir, we don’t have time for questions. You must listen to me. You have a choice now.”

“A choice,” Church said. It was hard to concentrate; the Reds had just sprinted around the corner of the mansion and stumbled to a stop.  
  
“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Grif said.

Donut clapped his hands over his mouth, staring.

“Querido Dios,” Lopez said, and turned his camcorder’s lens away.

“I’ve got an AED in the truck!” Sarge said. He ran, ignoring Simmons’ weak, “Uh, Sarge, it won’t help….”

Church started shivering. He couldn’t stop, even when he reminded himself that this wasn’t his real body and there wasn’t any adrenaline coursing through his system. He said bitterly, “Well, if I can choose to redo the last goddamn fifteen minutes of my life, I pick that.”

The woman looked regretful. “No, sir. You must decide what you do next.” Joshua tucked himself under her arm and she touched his cheek, sorrow and tenderness on her face. “Joshua died so young, he didn’t understand that he needed to move on. After I drowned with Miss Sarah, I realized he was still here and I...I couldn’t leave him. But now you must decide as well.”

Church looked at her trembling hand. It was easier than watching his friends cluster around his corpse. He winced as Tucker began to curse, a long ragged string of profanity. His head hurt. He was going to file a complaint with whoever was in charge of the afterlife, because so far he was fucking unimpressed.

“Look, lady, I always figured I was just straight up worm food, so I’m going to need more time to process--”

“Where’s Caboose?” Donut asked behind him.

Church looked up. He could see Caboose poised in the door-frame, a motionless shadowed figure. His incorporeal heart clenched in his chest. “Rookie!” he yelled, knowing it was pointless and yelling anyway. “Rookie, go down the goddamn stairs and don’t do anything stupid!”

“Church?” Caboose called, tentative in a way Church had only heard from him during the crash.

Church cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Go down the stairs, Caboose. That’s an order!” He knew Caboose couldn’t hear him, but it was still a relief when Caboose disappeared from the door-frame and Donut ran into the mansion. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Caboose still had the other Reds and Blues and his family. He’d be okay.

“Church,” Tucker said behind him. There was a dull thud, like Tucker had just punched the ground beside Church’s body. The sound came again. “Church, you stupid asshole. This wasn’t-- you-- What the fuck?”

Grief choked Church. He couldn’t grasp it, the enormity of his loss. It threatened to drown him. He’d thought he’d have years with Tucker, with Junior, with Caboose, even with the Reds. He thought he’d see Tex again. All those lost years stretched out before him, and he wanted to scream.

“This is bullshit,” Tucker said, his voice breaking.

“Yeah,” Church said. He laughed weakly, because it was either that or start to scream. “Yeah, that sums it up.”

He opened his eyes at the sudden silence. His incorporeal heart gave another jump. Everything was gone. An all-encompassing white emptiness surrounded him. He instinctively kicked like he was swimming, but it didn’t feel like he moved. Still his hind-brain screamed at him that he was falling.

Church tried to shake off the feeling. He glanced around. All he saw was whiteness. He licked his lips. He hadn’t expected an angel or pearly gates, and honestly, finding out that Christianity had been right after all would’ve made this fuckery all even worse, but this void was ridiculous. He called, “So, is anyone here? Do I get an explanation about what the afterlife’s all about, or do I just get to float here for eternity?”

Silence.

Church had never been a fan of solitude. He usually spent most of it obsessing over his mistakes. He kept talking.

“I’m just offering some constructive criticism here. This whole empty void thing? Not exactly the most exciting afterlife you could offer. I could make a few suggestions. I might not have gone to temple, but the World to Come doesn’t sound too bad compared to this.”

Silence.

“Come on!” Church shouted. “I just had the worst day I’ll ever have! And now this? If I have to just float around in this bright light for the rest of eternity, this is bullshit! This is total and complete--”

The endless expanse of light began to dim.

He corrected himself hastily as it grew dark around him. “On second thought, if it’s a choice between darkness and light, I’ll go with light, just-- Fuck!” It was pitch black. If he’d waved his disembodied hand in front of his face, he wouldn’t have been able to see it. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey! Whoever’s in charge of the afterlife is an _asshole_! Hey!”

Silence.

Church swore until he ran out of breath. And that was another thing. How long would it take his brain to fully realize that he was dead and didn’t need to do things like breathe? He took in a deep breath, ready to shout again, when a familiar voice called his name.

“Oh fuck,” Church said, covering his face with his hands and groaning. “The _goyim_ were right. This is Hell. I am in Hell, and of course Caboose is here.”

“Church!” Caboose said again, more insistently. “Church! Church!”

Church spun in place, glaring into the darkness as he shouted, “Jesus Christ, Caboose! _What_?” The last word filled the void like a thunderclap, and he flinched at the ringing in his ears.

Between one surprised blink and the next, he was back at the Harrington House, in front of an incomprehensible scene. He stared at his friends. They were all clustered in an awkward huddle in the middle of the parking lot, except for Sarge, who stood with a shotgun at the ready and a thunderous look on his grizzled face, and Doc, who walked around and occasionally crouched to pour more salt on the circle that ringed the group.  
  
Church noted distantly that time had passed. It was a new moon. And although Church couldn’t feel it, the temperature must have dropped because everyone was bundled up in heavy winter coats. He struggled to comprehend what had happened. Had he accidentally chosen to become a ghost by complaining about the void?

Caboose and Tucker’s familiar blue hats that Donut had knitted them all last Christmas were like a beacon. Church walked towards them, his heart in his throat. He didn’t understand what the fuck was happening, but he wasn’t going to argue against a chance to see his friends again, however long it lasted. He stopped behind Tucker, wanting to touch. Only the memory of how Tucker passing through him had felt like an inferno kept his hands at his sides.

“Church?” Caboose said, more softly than before. His shoulders slumped.

Church was torn between relief that Caboose was all right and frustration that he couldn’t answer. He carefully leaned over Tucker’s shoulder to see what they were all crouched around. He snorted, amusement briefly winning out over any other emotion. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. A Ouija board? Guys. Come on. Whose dumb idea was this?”

“I told you this was a dumb idea,” Grif said, as though he’d heard Church. He didn’t sound sarcastic, just quiet. Looking at him, Church saw the bruises under his eyes, like Grif hadn’t been sleeping well. Church remembered the mark that the woman had mentioned. Looking closer, he saw the silvery smudge on Grif's forehead as Grif raised his hand from the board and patted Caboose’s shoulder. “Sorry, Caboose.”

“I mean, a Ouija board? You guys know it’s just a scam right?” Church said. He glanced at everyone's foreheads. They all had the same smudge, with varying degrees of brightness. Caboose's shone the brightest, Tucker's a close second, and Simmons' was so faint that Church had to squint to see it. “It’s not like I can actually move anything….” He touched the planchette where Grif’s fingers had been and felt the solid wood beneath his hand. When he nudged it, it moved a little, stymied only by the other hands. “Huh.”

“Uh,” Simmons said, squinting at the quivering planchette. He cleared his throat. “I hate to agree with Grif, Caboose, but studies have shown that when the planchette moves, it’s because of subconscious pressure from the participants--”

Church pushed it harder and Simmons yelped, snatching his hand away. Church pushed it a third time. He misjudged his own strength. The planchette skittered away, sliding halfway across the board as everyone took a step back, except for Caboose, who brightened.

“Church! Oh, Church, I knew you’d come back!”

“Caboose,” Tucker said tightly. “It’s just the wind or something. Or Simmons’ subconscious thing.”

Church laughed, a little giddy with his success. “What, Tucker, did you take my place as the Blues’ buzzkill?” he said, and then pushed the planchette over to the ‘no’ spot. This time Caboose let go. Church kept his eyes on Tucker, and was rewarded by the shock and hope that softened Tucker’s face.

“Church?”

He pushed the planchette over to the yes spot, and then, laughing a little, nudged it away just to say yes again. Fuck, he’d happily be a ghost if it meant he could communicate with everyone. Even if this was just the universe’s way of letting him say goodbye, he’d take what he could get. He watched Tucker, trying to memorize the lines of his face, the color of his eyes, the shape of his wondering smile.

“Holy shit,” Grif said. “Holy shit!”

Caboose bent closer to the Ouija board and said quickly, the questions coming so fast that it was only long experience that let Church understand them, “Church? What’s it like in Heaven? Did you miss me? I missed you. Can you say hi to my dad? Do you get wings in Heaven? Is my dog Big there? If he is, can you hug him for me and tell him he’s a good dog? Can--”

SHUT UP, Church painstakingly spelled out. Caboose obediently settled down, still beaming. Church’s hands were beginning to ache, the planchette growing heavier with every push. “Fuck,” he muttered. “This is 2017. Where are my goddamn touch-screen Ouija boards?”

He started to spell HOWS JUNIOR, but each letter was harder to reach, his entire body shaking from the effort. He paused at the J and closed his eyes. He gasped for breath. His disembodied lungs labored. He flexed his hands, trying to fight off the pain. He remembered the woman saying that feelings faded with time, and wondered how long it would take before his body forgot to hurt.

“Church?” Tucker asked. He touched the motionless planchette. His smile faded. “Church, come on.”

Church gave in to temptation. He covered Tucker’s hand with his. The burning pain brought him to his knees. He gritted his teeth against it as the agony crept up his arm. When it reached his shoulder, he pulled away. He breathed hard, his head bowed. His arm was dead weight at his side, but he couldn’t regret it.

Above him, Tucker said, his voice rising with urgency, “Church, keep talking to us. Are you still here? Just--” Tucker broke off, breathing shakily. “Just give us one more yes, if you’re still here.”

Church fumbled for the planchette. It didn’t move. He threw his whole weight into it. It was like trying to push a boulder. He strained, cursing between gasps, until the planchette trembled and shifted a centimeter. It didn’t get anywhere close to the yes, but he still heard Tucker’s rough, “Oh, thank fuck.”

He gave up on moving the planchette for a minute, watching as Tucker rubbed a hand over his face.

“Church,” Tucker said. “Stay with me. Listen for minute.” He took a deep breath. “Just… Crap, what would you want to know first? We’re all pretty fucked up. Junior’s been sleeping in bed with me because he keeps having nightmares. I’ve been making sure Caboose takes his pills. The new meds are working, right, Caboose? No seizures in the last three weeks. Tex is...Tex is fucking pissed, man. She came for the funeral and then left, and none of us has heard from her since. She-- We’re all--”

Tucker stopped, closing his eyes. “We miss you.”

“Yeah. I miss you too,” Church said around the lump in his throat. It might’ve felt like minutes to him rather than the weeks it'd obviously been in the living world, but he’d still missed them all.

Caboose leaned forward. He looked earnest. “Church, can you come back now? Please? Everyone’s sad all the time, and I keep wanting to tell you things, and you’re not here. If you’re a ghost, I can’t hug you. How can we be best friends if we can’t hug or talk?” He paused, frowning. “You know, I don’t think Casper can hug his friends either? So just come back.”

“That’s not how it works, Caboose,” Simmons said gently. Then he laughed, a half-hysterical sound. “Then again, maybe it is! Ghosts apparently exist, so what do I know? Maybe Church could just pop into his body and--” He stopped, his eyes widening, and went a little green.

Church sighed. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how it works, but fuck, who knows. I’m kind of regretting donating my body to science now.” He pushed at the planchette again, but it didn’t budge.

Grif, looking a little queasy himself, said, “Simmons, if you’re about to barf, do it outside the salt circle. I’m not getting my soul eaten by demons because you puked on our protection.” As Simmons stumbled towards where both Sarge and Doc stood staring, Grif looked around. He said vaguely, “Uh, well. I hope the afterlife or being a ghost doesn’t suck.”

Donut said with uncharacteristic seriousness, “What he’s trying to say is that he misses you. We all do.”

“Thanks, Donut,” Church said though he knew Donut couldn’t hear him. He tried to move the planchette again, and found that his hand wouldn’t obey him. Now that he wasn’t focused on Tucker anymore, he realized that his limbs felt weighed down. Could you wear out your incorporeal body? Where were those other ghosts when he needed them? He strained and managed to get his hand back on the planchette.

Tucker stared at the Ouija board. “Church? Are you there?”

“Church?” Caboose echoed again. He slapped his hand down on the planchette, fumbling as though he could find Church’s hand and hold it.

Tucker’s touch had felt like fire. Caboose’s felt like ice.

Church tried to yank his hand away, but he couldn’t move. He choked against the sudden taste of saltwater in his mouth. The cold seared his lungs. He tried to remind himself that he didn’t have a body, that he didn’t need to breathe, but he coughed and gagged and fought for air anyway.

Darkness edged and consumed his vision. He had to be in that void again, jerked around like someone’s fucking toy. He tried to yell, but he still couldn’t breathe. Something scraped against his jaw, and he jerked away instinctively. Pain bloomed in his cheek. When he opened his eyes, they watered at the bright light. He didn’t taste saltwater anymore, but still he choked at the strange pressure in his throat, the unexpected pain in his arm. He tried to reach for his neck, but his hands were pinned down.

Through his panic he heard someone wail, “Help! Help! He’s awake!”

Church blinked, and his vision cleared. A girl was bent over him, her face grayish-brown with shock. She looked as panicked as he felt. He realized that she was holding him down, her hands on his wrists. His gaze flickered past her, and took in the white walls, the fluorescent lighting, the wildly beeping machines, the IVs going in his arm. He was in a hospital? Had the universe developed a sense of humor and stuck him back in his body after all? He tried to speak, and choked again. His teeth bit into a tube. He'd been incubated?

“Oh god, I don't think you can just take it out!” the girl said in a horrified voice when he wrenched a hand out of her grip and grabbed at the tube. She dragged his hand back down and yelled again. “Help!”

When a doctor burst through the door, the girl threw herself at him instead, so high-pitched now that probably only dogs could hear her. Church used his momentary freedom to push himself upright. The effort made his entire body shake, but he braced himself against the pillow. Now he could see more of the room. There was a tray next to his bed, where a towel, shaving cream, and a razor had been thrown haphazardly.

There was a mirror as well. A young man stared back, frowning as Church did around a breathing tube. The kid was pale and practically bald. Half-shaven, too, with a shallow cut still trickling blood down his cheek. As Church stared, his own cheek stung. He raised his hand and the kid did too, both touching the cut with shaking fingers.

Well, _fuck_.


	6. love’s sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently when a brain-dead patient woke up from a coma and claimed that he had amnesia, one of the first things the hospital did was call the cops. In Church’s defense, he’d been too rattled by the afterlife apparently tossing him into the nearest available dying body to think up a better lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is looking to shape up at nine chapters instead of eight because my outline didn't take into account how much these characters like to talk. 
> 
> (Speaking of talking, I don't actually know how doctors talk in a professional setting, so we're just gonna handwave that....) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter! Thanks again for all your amazing comments. :D

Apparently when a brain-dead patient woke up from a coma and claimed that he had amnesia, one of the first things the hospital did was call the cops.

In Church’s defense, he’d been too rattled by the afterlife apparently tossing him into the nearest available dying body to think up a better lie. He couldn’t offer the doctors his real name, not when his corpse was off in some hospital lab being studied by medical students. And he didn't know who the hell this body had first belonged to. It was probably a good thing that neither did the doctors. Apparently John Doe had been found unconscious just off the University of Delaware’s campus, the victim of a hit-and-run, and taken to Wilmington Hospital.

Now Church struggled to focus on the two cops standing in front of his bed. He’d mentally dubbed them Smiley Cop and Bitchy Cop within a minute of their introduction and forgotten their real names. He could look at their badges, but he didn’t actually care.

The one guy was all smiles and bland assurances that they were going to figure out who “John Doe” was. The woman hadn’t smiled once. She kept eyeing Church suspiciously like she thought he was lying about his amnesia. He guessed that proved she had good instincts, but she was going to be a pain in the ass if he couldn’t figure out how to escape the hospital.   

“Now we’ll run your fingerprints and photo, see if you have a state ID or had a background check in the last few years,” Smiley Cop said. He grinned reassuringly and patted Church’s leg through the blanket. “And someone’ll swing by later for a dental impression. Don’t worry. We’re covering all our bases.”

“We’ll figure out who you are,” Bitchy Cop said. It sounded like a threat.  

Church mustered some fake enthusiasm. “Great. Really appreciate it, officers.” He tried and failed to suppress a twitch at the sound of his new voice. Whoever had had this body first had come from somewhere south. He kept hearing the long vowels and thick drawl and looking around for Sarge, even though the voice was too young to be his. He rubbed at his throat, which still felt sore from the breathing tube.   

Bitchy Cop’s eyes narrowed. “You’re _sure_ you don’t remember anything?”

“Lady,” Church said with perfect honesty, “I don’t even recognize this face.”

Apparently the truth of that rang in his voice, because she blinked and studied him again, her mouth pursed. He started to raise his hands and winced as his body protested. After the adrenaline had worn off, he’d learned that his body was pretty much one huge bruise. Though he supposed he should be grateful that the hit-and-run had only really damaged this body’s brain and not broken any bones.

She was still staring at him. He tried to think of something a frightened amnesiac patient would ask. “I really didn’t come in with ID? I was found by a university. You guys checked my clothes, right? Maybe I had a student ID.”

“No ID found at the scene of the accident. I’m betting the hospital checked your clothes when you came in, but hey, you know what they say when you assume. Right, Suzy?” Smiley Cop turned his easy grin on the doctor who’d ushered the cops into the room and then hovered by the door, watching.

The doctor smiled tightly. Church got the impression that she didn’t appreciate a joke about her staff being inept. “We did check,” she said. She looked at Church. Her expression took on an apologetic cast. “There was no ID on you. Your jacket wasn’t salvageable, but the rest of your clothing survived intact.” She brightened. “If you’d like, I could bring the clothing here and see if they jog some memories.”

“And if they don’t, we could have our techs take a look at them,” Smiley Cop offered.

Church, halfway through planning an escape with those clothes, said hastily, “Oh, uh. I mean, unless they’re fancy clothes, they probably won’t help with the investigation, right?” When Bitchy Cop’s eyes narrowed again, he added, “I just get the feeling that I’m not a stylish guy. I won’t have two hundred dollar shoes you can track down.”

Thankfully, his words turned out prophetic. The clothes were a plaid shirt and slacks from J. Crew, plain white socks and boxers, a white baseball cap, and some sneakers that had seen better days. Maybe the guy _had_ been a student. Church felt a pang of guilt that he immediately repressed.

“Anything?” the doctor asked. She looked disappointed when Church shook his head. “Well, just let Officer York and his partner do their work. My staff and I will get you on the road to recovery.” She paused and looked him over. “And on that note, officers, I think that’s enough for the time being. My patient needs to rest.”

“I think--” Bitchy Cop said. She scowled when Smiley Cop laughed and clapped her on the shoulder.

“Come on, South. He’s not going anywhere. Let’s go see if Reg can figure out who this guy is. Maybe we should get some of the rookies to show his photo around campus.”

“Fine,” Bitchy Cop said. She gave Church one last hard stare before she left. She was definitely going to be a problem. Knowing Church’s luck, the body he was in belonged to a criminal or a guy with a huge amount of debt. Actually, this body probably already owed the hospital thousands of dollars, because American healthcare was bullshit.  

“Sir?” the doctor said. From her concerned tone of voice, she’d had to repeat herself more than once. Her hand hovered over his shoulder, not quite touching him. “How are you feeling?”

“Really fucking confused,” he said honestly.

Caught by surprise, the doctor smiled. Then she sobered. “Yes, that’s understandable. But I meant physically. Any headaches? Blurry vision? Problems with language as well as your memory? Trouble concentrating?”

“No,” Church said. He ran a hand over the plaid shirt. “Just, uh, no memory.”

The doctor nodded. She took the shirt from him and folded it, putting it back with the rest of the salvaged clothes. He tried to keep the relief from his face as she set the clothes on a table at the foot of the bed. “Well, I’d like to run a few more tests, but you’ve been through quite an ordeal already. Do you think you need to rest?” He must have looked surprised by the question, because she smiled again. “You might have no memory, but I still find that most patients understand their bodies fairly well. If you need it, rest for an hour. We’ll run more tests then.”

Looking into her earnest face, Church felt another pang of guilt. He hoped that she wouldn’t get into too much trouble if he vanished on her watch. But there was no way he was waiting around for Officers Smiley and Bitchy to find out this body’s real name and throw him into the arms of strangers who considered him family and friends.

“Yeah, an hour sounds good. Thank you.”

He waited about three minutes, and then started to untangle himself from the bed sheets. Thankfully they’d taken out the IV along with the breathing tube and stuff for the heart monitor during the first round of tests after he’d woken up.

Church stood. The room seemed off-kilter. He reached for glasses that weren’t there before he realized that the problem wasn’t his bad eyesight. It was something else. He took one step and tripped over his feet. All his bruises went from one dull ache to throbbing agony as he landed sideways on the bed. “Fuck,” he said through gritted teeth. He breathed hard until the pain passed. Then he stood up again. This time he stared down at himself.

It wasn’t his vision. It was his balance. This body was all arms and legs, and probably had a whole different center of gravity. If he tried to walk out now, hospital staff would take one look at him weaving around like a drunk and haul him back to his room. With a lot of silent cursing, he practiced putting one foot in front of the other until he could walk in a straight line. Then he changed into the salvaged clothes, trying not to think about wearing a stranger’s used clothing.  

He avoided the well-guarded maternity and behavioral health wards and the ER, and walked at an unhurried pace towards the main exit. No one even glanced his way, other than a young nurse who gave him an interested once-over. He was glad that the clothes and his cap hid the worst of the injuries. The only time he slowed was when he finally stepped through the doors.

The sun was warm on his face. It felt at least 70 degrees. Hadn’t Tucker said something about a month or two passing? This wasn’t November or December weather. Anxiety gripped him. How much time had passed between the Ouija board conversation and him waking up in this body? The doctors had said he’d been unconscious for a couple days, but somehow none of them had thought to mention the day's date.   

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if he showed up at Tucker’s house and Tucker told him it had been two years. It didn’t matter if this body was only temporary and he had twenty-four hours before he was thrown back into his shitty afterlife. None of it fucking mattered as long as the universe let him see his friends again.

 

* * *

 

Church paused at the corner of Tucker’s street.

His chest felt tight, his mouth dry, and not just from the exertion of walking fifteen blocks. He studied the neighborhood as he wiped sweat from his face. Everything looked the same. Mrs. Tanaka’s year-long Christmas lights were still up. The Greens needed to weed their garden. Even old Mr. Garcia was in his driveway, washing his car like clockwork. Well, at least Church knew it must be Wednesday. He tried not to stare like a weirdo as he walked past Garcia, looking for new wrinkles or extra silver hair that would tell him how much time had passed. 

Then he was in front of Tucker’s house. The driveway was empty, the windows of the house dark. Church felt a pang of disappointment, and then a wave of unease. Tucker wouldn’t have moved, he told himself. Tucker had poured most of his money into this place, wanting a house for Junior and not a small, cramped apartment like the one he’d grown up in. If no one was home, it was because Church had just arrived at the wrong time of day.

The low and familiar rumble of an approaching car made him turn.

His heart leaped as Tucker pulled into the driveway. He watched as Tucker opened the car door and hauled a few bags out. This time he let himself stare, looking for the passing of years in Tucker’s face. He was relieved to find that Tucker looked the same. A little tired, maybe, even in the warm sunlight, but unchanged.

Tucker straightened, arms full of groceries, and noticed him.

Church had known, objectively, that Tucker wouldn’t recognize him. It still felt like a knife between his ribs when wariness crept into Tucker’s face and he said, polite but guarded, “Can I help you?”

Church swallowed. Now that he was here, he realized that he didn’t know what to say or how to explain all the crazy shit he’d been through. He tried to smile. “Tucker,” he said, and stopped, his throat closing.

Tucker looked even warier. “Yeah. Are you a fan of Fighting Ghosts?” He shook his head. “Look, you can’t be here. This is my home. If you want an autograph, you can go to one of our shows.”

“Tucker,” Church said. He wanted to reach out so badly that his entire body ached. He took a deep breath, and then another. “Tucker, man, it’s me. Church.” He didn’t know how he expected Tucker to react. A disbelieving laugh, maybe, or baffled incomprehension.

Tucker dropped the groceries, grabbed Church by the collar, and threw him against the side of the car. He did it easily, like Church’s new body weighed nothing. Church didn’t even have a chance to gasp in pain, because Tucker’s hand tightened on his collar and cut off his air. Tucker glared as Church choked. “Fuck you, asshole. You think that’s _funny_?”

Garcia called over, concerned, “Lavernius? Do you need some help?”

“I’ve got this, Mr. Garcia,” Tucker said, his furious eyes never leaving Church’s face. “Okay, shit-stain. You’ve got ten seconds to get the fuck away from here, or I’ll kick your ass.”  

When he let Church go, Church slumped against the car, wheezing. He rubbed at his neck and tried to think. He had to say something before Tucker really laid into him. What would Tucker would believe?

Tucker began to count down from ten.

“Pete the Cat,” Church said breathlessly. He felt stupid as soon as he said it, but Tucker stopped.

“What?”

“Junior is obsessed with that cat. His favorite book is the one about the white shoes, which, Jesus, has _no_ concept of color theory. Blue and red make purple, goddamnit. _Purple._ It’d be one thing if he loved Four Groovy Buttons, which teaches some math basics, but--”

“ _Church_?” Tucker’s voice cracked.

Church blinked. “Wait, you believe me? You don’t need more, like the Ouija board stuff? Seriously, I can’t believe you guys tried that. Okay, I know it sort of worked, but--”

Tucker yanked him down into a hug. For a few seconds Church was disoriented. He’d always been taller than Tucker, but now he had almost a foot on him. His bruised back strained from half-bending into the embrace. He wished he was in his own body. He shook off the strangeness and regret and hugged Tucker back. He rested his head on top of Tucker’s and just breathed for a moment.

“Holy shit,” Tucker said, the words muffled against Church’s chest. He held Church tighter, like he thought Church was going to vanish on him again. “What the fuck, Church? How are you-- what?”

Church laughed around the lump in his throat. “Man, don’t ask me. It’s been a weird, shitty day.” He felt Tucker tense.   

“Day? It’s been fucking months.”

Church shrugged. He was glad that Tucker wasn’t looking at him and couldn’t see his relief. Months instead of a year or two? He’d take it. He aimed for a matter-of-fact tone. “Well, Tucker, time is weird when you’re dead. One minute I was trying to use the Ouija board, the next I opened my eyes in a hospital in the middle of summer.”

“It’s February,” Tucker said. He pulled back just enough that he could look up. His arms stayed around Church.

Church tried not to lean too much into the touch. He searched for the hint of a grin that meant he was being fucked with. He didn’t find it, but Tucker had to be messing with him. He rolled his eyes. “February? Nice one, Tucker. It’s seventy degrees out.”

Tucker laughed. “Global warming, man.” To Church’s disappointment, he took another step back, his arms dropping to his sides. His smile softened and then faded. “Come on, help me get these groceries inside. I want to hear everything. Uh, including about _that_.” He waved his hand vaguely at Church’s new body. “Like...are you possessing that guy? Is this temporary?”

Church’s hand went up to fiddle with his non-existent glasses before he crouched to grab some of the grocery bags. He hid his expression by pretending to peer intently into one of the bags. There was Junior's favorite cereal, a twelve-pack of beer, and some anti-bacterial soap. The exciting life of a single dad. Not looking up at Tucker to see his reaction, he muttered, “Uh, yeah. This body belonged to some John Doe who was brain-dead. So I guess I hopped into the nearest dead body or something? I’m trying not to think about it.”

Tucker said blankly, “Wait, brain-dead?” Worry crept into his voice. “Shit, you said something about a hospital. Are you okay? Like, brain-dead means brain damage. How do you feel? Maybe I should get Doc. He’s a doctor, technically--”

“You want to call _Doc_?” Church said in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” He looked up, about to reassure Tucker, when Tucker reached out and cupped his face. For a second Church froze, and then he remembered this new body's injuries as Tucker's thumb brushed the edge of the razor-cut. His cheek throbbed dully even at the light touch.  

Tucker’s hands shook a little. His eyes were bright and fixed on Church’s. “No, I’m not fucking kidding. I’m not-- I can’t lose you again. I’ll take to you to Dr. Grey. She's shady as hell. She can probably get you a free CAT scan or something.”

“Tucker,” Church said, his chest aching. He remembered his earlier conviction that it didn’t matter if this was just for one day. His past self was a fucking idiot. He wanted _years_. He didn’t let himself overthink it. He touched Tucker’s wrists. “I can’t promise you that this body won’t break down. I don’t know how this works. There wasn't exactly an instruction manual or orientation for the afterlife. But even if this body stops working, I’m coming back. I’ll Quantum Leap this shit forever.”

Tucker blinked. A laugh scraped out of his throat, rough and wet. “Use a reference I get, asshole.”

“Fuck you, you can use context clues,” Church said. "And Quantum Leap is great if you ignore the finale."

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Slowly he nodded. Church forced himself to let go as Tucker stood and brushed dirt off his jeans. “Okay. I’m holding you to that. Now come on. We’re giving Mr. Garcia a very weird show.”    

Church laughed weakly. “Yeah, we probably are.” He grabbed a few grocery bags, waved at a very confused-looking Garcia, and followed Tucker inside.

He took three steps into the living room and stopped, staring. The last time he’d been here, the bookshelves had been half-filled, mostly with Junior’s steadily growing library. Junior's books were still there, but now the bookshelves were also crammed with library books about the afterlife, ghosts, and supernatural. There must have been at least thirty of them, with titles that varied from  _What Happens After You Die_ to  _On Death and Dying_. 

Tucker noticed him staring and grimaced. “Uh, yeah. After the Ouija board thing actually worked, I got a little….” His arms were still full of bags, but one of his hands made a vaguely circular motion that probably stood for crazy.

Curious, Church wandered over to the bookshelves. “Do any of them mention marks? The ghost lady at the Harrington House said we all had them, that they meant we could all talk to ghosts.” Tucker didn’t answer. When Church looked at him, he was staring. “Oh yeah, there’s at least two ghosts at the Harrington House. Didn’t Caboose tell you? He at least saw the ball.”

Tucker’s expression tightened. “Caboose wasn’t…. He didn’t make a lot of sense for a while after you died.”

Church winced. He remembered Caboose’s plaintive request to come back. Guilt gnawed at him, even if it had been those ghosts’ fault that he’d died. “Right. Is he, uh, doing okay? You said his new meds were helping. No more seizures?”

“Yeah,” Tucker said. Then it was his turn to wince. “Oh shit. I need to call him. If he finds out you’re back and I didn’t tell him immediately, he’ll never forgive me.” He paused halfway to the kitchen. “Should I call the other guys too?”

Church hesitated. He glanced at the mantelpiece clock. Seven minutes to one. Unless things had really changed, Junior had aftercare until five today. He nodded. “Sure. That way I don’t have to tell the whole story twice.”

Tucker nodded. “Just let me throw this stuff in the fridge first.”  

Church stayed where he was. He listened to Tucker moving around in the kitchen and breathed in the familiar smells of the house. He should go help, but instead he sat down on the couch. He leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. For the first time since he’d sat up on the grass in front of the Harrington House, he felt at peace.

His thoughts must have drifted, because a second later Tucker said, “Hey.”

Church opened his eyes to find Tucker looking down at him, his cell in one hand. The grocery bags were all gone. “Hey,” he said back. A thought occurred to him as he sat up. “I guess I’m crashing in your spare bedroom? Since Tex got my apartment in the will and probably sold it.” At the thought of Tex, some of his peace fled. Where was she? If she was on a mission, he’d have to figure out when she was next stateside. This wasn’t a conversation they could have over Skype.

Tucker’s smile faded. He was silent long enough that Church started to get uneasy. Had something happened to Tex while he was floating around in the afterlife?

Then Tucker said, “Tex is renting your place out to a vet. Before you ask, I don’t know where she is. She, uh, still isn’t really talking to any of us.” His smile disappeared for a second, and then reappeared. “And of course you’re staying here.” He paused. His expression changed. “And, uh, Church. About your will….”

“Oh. Right,” Church said. His face felt hot. He hadn’t had much to pass on, but he’d given Tex his apartment and his car, and split his savings between Junior and Caboose, with Tucker as their trustee. “Well, Junior probably won’t need the money. He’ll get a basketball scholarship, but--”

“Yeah, you’re not getting it back. My kid’s set for life,” Tucker said, grinning. His face softened again. “Thanks. When they read the will, I… Thanks. Though fuck you for making me in charge of Caboose’s money too. Do you know how often he whines at me because I won’t let him buy a fucking moon-bounce? Or a pony?”

“Let him buy a moon-bounce,” Church said. He laughed when Tucker gave him the finger. “Sorry. But please, _please_ tell me all the stupid shit Caboose wants to buy.”

Tucker groaned. “Where do I even start? Alphabetically, or from least dumb to dumbest?” 

"Surprise me," Church said. He leaned back against the couch as Tucker groaned again and sat down next to him. Neither of them moved when their shoulders and knees touched. Church wasn't budging, not when the quiet voice of worst-case scenarios in his head warned that he might not be able to keep his promise to Tucker. He could find himself back in that awful void any second. For now, though, nothing terrible happened. They leaned against each other. Church smiled and nudged Tucker with his elbow. "Or start with the moon-bounce. That sounds like a good story...." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to AriRashkae and Akisawana for helping me plot out Church's hospital escape, and to the kind anon on FFA who offered ideas on what York and South would do as police to figure out John Doe's identity.


	7. called longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undressing in the bathroom just made him feel even weirder. He tried to avoid his new face in the mirror, but he saw it from the corner of his eye as he struggled out of his clothes. He kept getting distracted by the unfamiliarity of this new body-- a spattering of moles on his thigh, an appendix scar, the stitches on his head, the colorful bruises from this body’s lost fight with a car. How long would it take him to get used to this, he wondered. How long until he could look at his reflection and not see a stolen face staring back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we're in the home stretch now! Still some shenanigans in store, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“So you should probably take a shower,” Tucker said. He nudged Church’s arm, grinning, and Church tried not to get distracted by the strangeness of how much further Tucker had to tilt his head now to meet his eyes. Whoever was in charge of the afterlife couldn’t have given Church a body of someone closer to his actual height? “No offense, but this new body of yours reeks.”

Church didn’t even have to sniff to know that Tucker was right. He made a face. “Oh, fuck off. You try walking here from the hospital without deodorant and see how you smell.” He plucked at his shirt, grimacing at the sweat stains. How had Tucker endured sitting next to him for so long? “I’d say I should change too, but these are my only clothes, so....”

Tucker grimaced. “Shit. I didn’t think about that. I might have one of Grif’s sweatshirts, but otherwise I guess I can try to wash your shit before the guys show up. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping.”

Church stood before Tucker could see his expression change. He’d joked about his will and his apartment belonging to Tex, but now the realization of what that meant was settling in. He had no money, no ID, nothing but literally the clothes on his back. How was he going to get a job? He couldn’t just sit around Tucker’s house with his thumb up his ass.

“Yeah, I’ll go take that shower,” he said, and fled.

Undressing in the bathroom just made him feel even weirder. He tried to avoid his new face in the mirror, but he saw it from the corner of his eye as he struggled out of his clothes. He kept getting distracted by the unfamiliarity of this new body-- a spattering of moles on his thigh, an appendix scar, the stitches on his head, the colorful bruises from this body’s lost fight with a car. How long would it take him to get used to this, he wondered. How long until he could look at his reflection and not see a stolen face staring back? He stepped into the shower and put the water on full blast, closing his eyes. His scalp stung. He remembered belatedly that he shouldn’t get his stitches wet. He adjusted the shower-head, and distracted himself with the pain of his bruises as the water pounded his back and shoulders.

It worked as a distraction until Tucker pounded on the bathroom door. Church jumped and then had to catch himself against the wall as his feet slid. Great. He hadn’t even had this body for twenty-four hours and he’d already almost cracked his head again.

“Hey, dumbass. I need your clothes!”

Church rolled his eyes. “Hey, dumbass, I didn’t lock the door.”

“You didn’t-- oh.”

Church was grateful that Tucker had let Junior decorate both of the bathrooms. It meant that the shower curtain was opaque and decorated with a bunch of colorful dinosaurs. All he could see was Tucker’s silhouette as Tucker grabbed his clothes and then lingered. He swallowed, uncomfortably aware that he was naked. Heat rushed to his face that couldn’t be blamed on the shower. “Uh, did you need something? I’m not exactly in the mood for company.” The joke fell flat even to his own ears, and he winced.

Tucker snorted and muttered something under his breath. Louder, he said, “Just don’t use up my shampoo, Frankenstein.”

Church ran a self-conscious hand over his head. Most of the hair was gone, shaved off by the doctors trying to save John Doe’s life. All that had been left behind was a light yellow fuzz. His fingers ran lightly over the stitches that circled his head like Frankenstein’s monster. He felt queasy for a second, imagining what the doctors had done to cause those stitches. And fuck, he probably _would_ need Doc’s help with them.  

By the time he finished his shower, he had a new concern. His stomach was growling at him. When was the last time he’d eaten? The doctors had been too busy running tests and calling the cops to give him any solid food. He started to grab a towel, and then paused, aquamarine catching his eye. Donut had given everyone freakishly comfortable bathrobes that first Christmas with an open invitation for home spa days. No one had taken him up on the spa days (except Doc), but Tucker had apparently kept the bathrobe.

Church put it on. It was a little small, but still better than wandering around in just a towel. He went into the kitchen where Tucker was making himself a sandwich. “Mind making me one too? I’m starving.”

“Sure, I--” Tucker stopped mid-sentence as he took in the bathrobe. Church was acutely aware of his new body and its gangly arms and legs; he resisted the urge to fold his arms defensively against his chest. Tucker’s face did something complicated. Then he grinned slowly. “I meant it when I said you can stay, Church. You don’t have to give me a show.”

Church flushed and flipped him off. “Fuck you. It was this or a towel.”

Tucker, still grinning, said, “Whatever you say.”

Then they both froze as the front door slammed open and Grif called, “Hey, man, way to be fucking mysterious with that group text--” Grif came through the door. His wide-eyed gaze took in Tucker and Church, lingering on the bathrobe. For a few seconds he just stared. Then he sidled past Church and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He muttered, “Uh, don’t let me interrupt,” and then slunk out of the kitchen.

Church’s face went hot. Even his ears burned. “I,” he said, stuttering, and forgot what he was about to say as the strangeness of his new accent and voice hit him all over again. He rubbed at his mouth, grimacing. Grif had seen some half-naked guy standing in Tucker’s kitchen and assumed…. Well. What most people would have assumed. It might’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t for the longing that caught Church by the throat and squeezed.

“Eat your sandwich,” Tucker said, and then went after Grif before Church could say a word.

Church frowned. Was Tucker going to try and explain? Grif wouldn’t believe him. He’d thought it would be smarter to tell everyone together, but maybe Grif could be a test-run. He snorted to himself. It couldn’t go worse than Tucker choking him. When Church got to the door, he paused as Grif laughed.

“A hook-up in the middle of the day? Nice, dude. Though he’s a little young. What is he, in college? I thought you liked older guys.”

Church waited for Tucker to correct him.

Instead Tucker said, “Keep your voice down. And it’s complicated. We’ll explain when everyone gets here.”

“Wait, _we_?” Grif repeated. “Is he sticking around?” When Church peered through the crack in the door, he saw a weird look on Grif’s face. It took him a few seconds to identify it as genuine concern. “Look, not that I’m not happy you’re finally getting over Church, but you’ve never even mentioned this guy before. Now you’re 911ing the group to introduce him? Don’t you think you’re moving too f--”

Church hadn’t meant to say a word, so it was a surprise to hear his new voice say, “Getting over _who_?”

Grif jumped and then winced. “Uh. Forget I said anything.”

“Tucker and--” _I_ , Church almost said, and swallowed it back just in time. He shook his head. Grif was talking out of his ass. “You have to have dated someone to need to get over them. And Tucker’s straight.”

Grif laughed. He raised his beer in a mock-toast. “Wow. No offense, dude, but that’s the fucking dumbest thing I’ve heard all week.”

“Tucker’s straight,” Church insisted, and turned to Tucker for support.

Tucker’s expression stole the ground from under his feet. Church knew how falling felt. He knew the way your breath caught in your chest, the roar of the wind in your ears, the sudden weightlessness before gravity dragged you down. He clutched at the door-frame and tried to shake off the feeling. “You’re not straight,” he said, and knew his voice would’ve come out strange even without the shaky southern drawl. “We’ve known each other for three years and you didn’t tell-- but _Grif_ knows?” Jealousy and hurt clenched his stomach.

Grif stared between them, clearly lost. He clutched his beer to his chest. “So, uh, so you two should talk. I’m gonna, uh, go hang out in my car….” He retreated out the front door.

Church kept staring at Tucker, who avoided his eyes. The new knowledge still churned in his gut, but other emotions mixed in with the jealousy and shock. How long had Tucker-- How much had Church misunderstood? Something skirting the edge of hope filled his chest. He licked his lips. He tried to ask, but all that came out of his mouth was a stupid, “ _Grif?_ Seriously?”

Tucker shrugged, still not looking at him. “He’s actually pretty okay. Disgusting and probably going to drop dead of a heart attack when he’s like forty, but the dude’s cool and a good listener. We started hanging out after--” He paused. A shadow crossed his face. He took a breath. “Look, I didn’t mean to keep being bi a secret. I’m not ashamed or anything. It’s just…. My mom’s family are assholes, and when I enlisted Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was still a thing. I just got used to not talking about it.” He snorted. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter. My chances of getting laid went to pretty much zero after I had Junior. Doesn’t matter if I’m at Cheney’s or the Crimson Moon, I’m not getting any tail once they know I have a kid.”

Church absorbed this slowly. Then he said, “Yeah, that’s bullshit.”

Tucker flinched. It was a small gesture, but Church saw it. “Come on, man,” he said, his voice low, still looking everywhere but at Church. His hand tapped nervously at his hip. “Don’t--”

“Don’t what, make it weird? Fuck that. You made it weird first,” Church said. He was momentarily grateful for his new lanky frame. It took barely any effort to cross the room to where Tucker stood. “And this body might be brain-damaged, but I heard what Grif said. You--” His breath caught. He swallowed around his nerves. “You were getting over me?”

Tucker’s hand went still. He blinked. “No, I wasn’t. Grif’s a fatass liar,” he said, fast and too forceful to be believed.   

Church wondered how he had missed it. Had it been obvious all these years and he’d just been oblivious, or did he just recognize the minute tells now that he knew? A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He let himself smile, and then laugh. “Jesus, we’re fucking dumbasses.”

Some of the tension bled out of Tucker as Church laughed, though he still searched Church’s face like he was trying to figure out what Church was thinking. “Look, I, what Grif said--”

Church could’ve let Tucker dig himself deeper because it was funny, but impatience filled him. How many years had they both wasted? How many nights had they squandered pining like some teenage idiots? He spared a moment’s regret that they hadn’t figured their shit out before he’d died and come back in a stolen body. Then he took Tucker’s hand.

Tucker shut up. Church saw the moment understanding hit him. It was Tucker’s turn to laugh. “ _Seriously_?” He was still laughing when Church leaned down to kiss him.

The kiss started slow and a little awkward, Tucker’s mouth half-open, and Church still struggling with his new depth perception. Then Tucker melted into it, his hand clutching tightly to Church’s. Tucker kissed him like he was starving, like the last three years had been one torturous fast. Church touched Tucker’s cheek and stroked his jaw, one of his braids, his throat where his pulse beat quickly. Each new sensation against his fingertips was a new revelation. He grinned stupidly against Tucker’s mouth, and felt the answering grin.

Someone pounded on the front door, and Church came back to himself with a start, instinctively stepping away from Tucker. Their hands separated. He was acutely aware of his new body. He felt too big for his skin, the bathrobe too tight. He wanted to ignore the knocking and kiss Tucker again.  

The knocking came again, even louder. Grif called, sounding halfway between amused and apologetic, “Not that I want to blue-ball anyone, but uh, Simmons’ car just turned the corner and Sarge texted that he’d be here in five. Also, you don’t have curtains on your windows. So…. Maybe put stuff on pause?”

Church’s face went hot again. How much had Grif seen?

Tucker laughed. His voice was warm as he said, “Man, our timing sucks.” They both jumped as a buzzer went off. The dryer, Church realized. When Grif knocked on the door again, Tucker yelled, “Fuck off for a minute!” Then he lowered his voice. “Go change in my room and wait there. I figure it’ll be easier to explain, uh, this to everyone at once.” He waved a vague hand at Church, from the top of his stitched-up head to his bare feet.

Church remembered Grif’s comment about Tucker liking older guys. He smirked. “So everyone won’t think you’re a cradle robber?”  

Tucker’s vague hand wave turned into a one-finger salute.

 

* * *

 

Church didn’t pace around Tucker’s bedroom once he’d gotten dressed. Instead he sat on the bed and let the past few days -- well, months, technically, but time was weird when you were dead -- really sink in. It probably said something that he felt most overwhelmed by the knowledge that Tucker actually wanted him back than the whole ghosts and afterlife thing. Fuck, Tex was going to give him so much shit.

“Hey,” Tucker said from the doorway.

Church stood up. His stomach fluttered, and he tried not to grin like an idiot. “Everyone’s here?”

“Yeah. Oh, and Doc’s here too.” At Church’s look, Tucker shrugged. “I guess he and Donut were on a date looking at antiques or visiting an organic farm or some other shit they both love.”

“Ten bucks says he’s going to tell us to call his aunt the medium to get her advice.”

Tucker snorted. “That's a sucker's bet. Who do you think came up with the Ouija board idea?”

Church laughed as he headed towards the door. “Shit, and then it actually worked! He probably didn’t shut up for days.”

“Weeks,” Tucker said glumly. Then he caught Church’s arm. He was smiling again, a smile that Church had only seen on his face once or twice before, when he’d made the mistake of going to a bar with Tucker and having to suffer through hours of watching Tucker flirt with women. The look should’ve been less hot. “The guys are going to want to stick around, but after Junior goes to bed….”

Church’s chest tightened. “Right. What are we telling Junior again?”

Tucker looked surprised, like he hadn’t thought about it. He screwed his face up in thought. “Well, Junior, sometimes when two people care about each other a lot, one of them will die and then come back with a new body, and crash on your couch because he technically gave everything he owned away. Say hi to Uncle Church. Also don’t tell your friends about this or they’ll think we’re all crazy.”

Church rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

“Hey, Tucker, did you get distracted making out?” Grif yelled from the living room.

“I wish,” Tucker muttered, and grinned as Church flushed. He squeezed Church's arm and then let go. “Come on.”

Everyone was sitting around the living room, looking varying degrees of curious and amused. Church's throat tightened at the sight of Caboose bouncing excitedly on the couch. Grif, smirking, opened his mouth to tease them again like an asshole, and then stared as Simmons shot to his feet with a startled yelp.

“Um, Tucker? Why do you have a missing person in your house?”

“What?” Tucker said, blinking.

“Uh,” Church said. He had almost forgotten about that. He scratched his jaw. “Right.”  

Simmons shoved his phone at Tucker, but Grif intercepted it. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, glancing curiously between Church and the screen. “Says here your buddy Mr. Doe escaped from the hospital a few hours ago.” Grif squinted. “Something about amnesia and possible brain damage? Dude. They’ve even got a phone number to call.”

Donut clapped his hands. “Oh, is he a fugitive from the law? That’s so romantic.”

“I’m not a fugitive!” Church said, then reconsidered. “Though they probably want me to pay those hospital bills.” He grabbed the phone from Grif and grimaced at the two photos in the news article. First was a blurry pixelated image of him leaving the hospital, but the second was clearer and very obviously his new face, stitches and buzzed hair and everything. He recognized it as the photo Bitchy Cop had taken of him during the interview.

“A fugitive, eh?” Sarge said, brightening. He looked excited at the prospect of having a criminal in their midst. Church didn’t know why he was surprised. “Still can’t be more of a dirtbag than Grif! What’d you do?”

“What the fuck?” Tucker said, leaning against Church’s shoulder to frown down at the phone. “You didn’t tell me you broke out of the hospital.”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” Church said, though actually he couldn’t remember. He ignored Sarge. “I definitely mentioned the hit-and-run. Besides, what do you suggest? That I should’ve stayed there and waited for them to figure out who John Doe was?”

“Yes,” Doc said, frowning worriedly. He stood up and hovered at Church’s other side, studying his stitches. Church twitched as Doc plucked at his collar and made concerned noises over the bruises. “You should have stayed in the hospital until they released you! I can call--”

“Jesus,” Church said. “Guys, sit down and I’ll explain.”

Caboose nodded slowly as everyone but Tucker sat back down. Tucker leaned against the mantel. Caboose looked grave and sympathetic. “Do you not like hospitals either, Tucker’s new friend?”

“I’ve got 911 on speed-dial,” Sarge said, wagging a finger at Church and holding his phone up in his other hand. “And I don’t mind taking you out myself! So don’t try anything funny, creep.”

“I,” Church said. He pinched his nose and sighed. Tucker, the asshole, was grinning. “Okay. Right. So this is going to sound crazy, but I’m Church.” He kept talking over the disbelieving and angry sounds. “Shut up, assholes. I can prove it, just give me--”

Caboose’s eyes went wide. “Church?” he whispered, and then flung himself forward.

Church staggered backwards as Caboose wrapped him up in a bone-crushing hug. “Damn it, Caboose!” He was almost Caboose’s height in this new body, but Caboose still lifted him easily. The room spun. Every bruise protested. He swung his dangling feet, aiming for Caboose’s shins. He missed. “Caboose! This body just got hit by a car, you’ve got to be gentle!”

“Sorry,” Caboose said, setting him down. He didn’t let go, just kept smiling. Tears slid down his face. Softly, he added, “I _knew_ you’d come back. They said you were gone, but I knew they were wrong.” He frowned and patted Church’s cheek. “Did you choose to look like this? I liked you better before. Where are your glasses?”  

Church sighed, torn between affection and exasperation. “Yeah. It's complicated. We’ll have a talk about all that later, okay? But right now I’ve got to convince our friends, because they’re not going to believe me instantly.” He paused and snorted. “I don’t know why I’m surprised you did.”

Caboose blinked. “You said you were Church. Why would you lie about that?”

“Because people are assholes, buddy,” Church said. When Caboose frowned, uncomprehending, he sighed again. “Now go sit down and let me talk to everyone else.”

“Okay!” Caboose said. He paused only to give Church one last hug and then beam at Tucker before he dropped back down into his chair.

“Uh,” Church said. He looked into a half-dozen skeptical faces. He tried to think of something that would convince everyone instantly and came up blank. He went to fiddle with his non-existent glasses and then grimaced and scratched his jaw. “Huh, I didn’t think this through.”

“Tucker, I think maybe we should call the police,” Simmons said. He was perched at the edge of the couch cushion, braced like he was ready to tackle Church himself if Church made the wrong move. “This guy is obviously unwell, even if--” He paused and glanced at Caboose. He frowned. “Even if people want to believe him, it’s impossible--”

“As impossible as the Ouija board actually summoning me?” Church shook his head. “Yeah, even I barely believe it, and I’ve been the one bouncing in and out of the afterlife like some sort of fucked up ping pong ball. But uh, look, I guess I could try to talk about stuff only I would know about each of you or something. That works in the movies.”

He took a breath. His eyes fell on Donut first, mostly because Donut had his chin propped up in his hand and was watching avidly, looking like he wished he’d brought popcorn for the show. Knowing Donut, he was probably enjoying the drama.

“Hey, Donut.”

“Hello,” Donut said, smiling. “Oh, am I first? I’m touched.” He wiggled a little in his seat. The light caught on his nails, pale pink with small silver stars. “I feel like we’re all in a suspense film! Oh, maybe when Church donated his body to science, they experimented and uploaded his memories into a new body." He studied the stitches on Church's head. "Oh, or maybe you switched brains! You have all his memories, but you’re not the real Church!”

Church smiled despite himself. He’d always liked Donut and his wild imagination. “Sorry, Donut. I don’t think that science has advanced that far yet. Or at least they wouldn’t be doing those experiments in Wilmington.” He thought for a second as Donut sighed in disappointment. “Okay, look. Do you remember when we first met?”

Donut pursed his lips. “When I first met Church, you mean? Yes, of course! I told him that he needed contacts, because he shouldn’t be hiding those beautiful green eyes of his.”

Church laughed. “I forgot about that. You spent five months trying to convince me I should get rid of my glasses. But no, I meant what you said to me after the session, about Tex. About, uh, true love and soulmates.”

Donut’s good eye blinked. He straightened, his arm falling into his lap. “Yes,” he said slowly.

“You said,” Church said, and then hesitated, aware of Tucker’s eyes on him. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, fighting embarrassment. “Well, I think I'd said something stupid about having thought Tex was my soulmate. And you said that while you believed in soulmates, you always wondered why people limited themselves to one. Tex was one of my soulmates, someone I was meant to be with forever, just not the person I was going to marry.”

Church was caught off-guard by the tears that suddenly shone in Donut’s eyes. “Oh, Church. You _remembered_.”

“Come on, Donut,” Grif scoffed. He leaned against the couch, frowning. “People don’t come back from the dead.”

Church took another breath. He felt a little steadier, seeing the conviction on Caboose, Donut, and Tucker’s faces. “Grif. Remember when we were working on _Point/Counterpoint_ and one of your old buddies called you? A Humvee had hit an IED and Kai was MIA.”

He didn’t have to say anything else. That night was seared into both of their memories. Grif had paced around Church’s apartment and alternated between cursing Kai out for being a stupid bitch who should have never signed up for the Marines and trying to convince himself that Kai was all right. When Kai had finally called to assure Grif that she only had a concussion and a few bruises, Grif had drunk an entire bottle of whiskey and then passed out on Church’s bed. The next morning, bleary-eyed and hungover, Grif had asked Church not to mention his freak-out to anyone.   

Grif’s face went blank. Stunned recognition widened his eyes. “Fuck.” Then he glanced towards Tucker. His skin blanched to an ashy brown. He winced and looked apologetic. “Uh, fuck. Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to run my mouth." Then he paused and reconsidered, grinning slightly. "Though I guess it worked out, so actually, you're welcome.”

Simmons huffed. “Grif, Donut, I cannot believe you’re falling for this!”

Church was going to enjoy himself with this one. He grinned. “Your turn, Simmons? Since I mentioned Kai, what about the time she was on leave and you accidentally ate three of her pot brownies? You--”

Simmons blushed a blotchy crimson. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone about that!” he hissed, and then realized what he’d said. The color faded from his cheeks too. He blinked. “ _Church_? How is this possible?”

Church shrugged. “Look, man, I don’t fucking know. The afterlife didn’t exactly give me an instruction manual. There was just a bunch of weird shit and then I ended up in this body. Apparently he was medically brain-dead, so I guess whoever's in charge decided to throw me in here.”

“Oh, wow,” Doc said thoughtfully. “We should probably unpack the ethical quandaries of that--”

“Not right now, Doc,” Church said. He glanced towards Sarge, whose expression was unreadable. He racked his brain. “Uh, honestly, Sarge, I have no idea how to convince you.”

“No need!” Sarge said. “Donut and Simmons believe you, and I don’t think anyone can pull a fast one on two upstanding Marines! You might be a wily devil, but no one’s that clever!” Then his expression darkened. “Though why the good Lord would decide to raise a zoomie from the dead like Lazarus, I don’t understand.”

“Maybe God’s just a fan of the military in general, Sarge,” Grif said. He’d recovered from his shock quickly enough. Now he wore a mock-earnest look. “We should test if God likes zoomies or jarheads better. Sarge, you want to volunteer, see if God will throw your soul into another college student?”

“If anyone’s getting volunteered, it’s you,” Sarge growled.

“Okay,” Simmons said shakily. “I think we need to hear the whole story from Church.”

So Church started talking. He told them about seeing the ball float in front of Caboose. Walking out into thin air. Dying. Meeting the two ghosts at the Harrington House. Learning about the smudges that only ghosts could see. Enduring the afterlife. Trying to communicate with the Ouija board. Waking up in the hospital.

When he stopped, his throat was dry, and his stomach grumbled, reminding him that he’d never eaten that sandwich.

“I told you I heard Church at the Harrington House,” Caboose said matter-of-factly. “He told me to go down the stairs.”

“Uh, yeah, I did,” Church said, startled. “You heard me, buddy? Good.”

Simmons touched his forehead like he could find the mark now that he knew about it. “I have the faintest mark out of everyone?” When Church nodded, his shoulders slumped. “Oh, that’s okay. I mean, I’m having difficulty coming to grips with the fact that ghosts and a possible afterlife exist. Why would I want to talk to ghosts like you and Caboose apparently can?” His voice wobbled.

Church felt bad. He rubbed at his jaw. “The ghosts did say they’d only met one other person with the sign in all the years they haunted the place, so it’s still pretty rare.”

“Yeah,” Simmons said with a weak smile.  

“Hm, that’s so interesting. My aunt Magnolia says that she knows about theses marks, but she said she’s only known one person to have one besides herself,” Doc said, looking up from his phone. He smiled, oblivious to the looks everyone but Donut was giving him. “It’s why she’s such a good medium! But I never heard of so many people having them in one group. I wonder if that’s why the ghosts were strong enough to move the ball and try to communicate! Maybe having so many people receptive to ghosts gave them power.”

“Lucky me,” Church said sarcastically.

“Do you think that’s why Church was able to possess this body?” Donut asked, his chin propped in his hand again. “Because his mark was so strong, and all his closest friends had the mark? Maybe the ties of friendship brought him back to Wilmington!”

“Maybe,” Doc said. “Aunt Magnolia’s never heard of this happening--”

Church snatched the phone out of Doc’s hands. He scowled at the screen. For an eighty-year-old woman, Aunt Magnolia loved her emojis. “You told your aunt? Come on, man. We need to figure this shit out before we tell anyone else.”

Doc looked injured. “Aunt Magnolia understands the supernatural better than anyone in this room!”

“Uh huh,” Grif said. “But we’ve got a bigger problem.”

Church blinked. “We do?”

“Uh, yeah, Mr. John Doe,” Grif said. “Did you forget you’re in some kid’s body and that the police are looking for you? What are you going to do? Just hide in Tucker’s house for the rest of your life?” He paused. A shit-eating grin spread across his face. “Well, maybe that wouldn’t be too awful….”

Church gave him the finger and Grif’s grin widened. “Go to hell. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now I just figure to enjoy, you know, not being a ghost.”

“Oh!” Doc said. “You guys are filming another episode of _Fighting Ghosts_ tomorrow, aren’t you? He should come along! Maybe he’ll be able to talk to the ghosts.”

“Huh, that’s actually not a bad idea,” Grif said. “With Church's help, we could get evidence to prove ghosts are real and rake in some of that sweet cash, since _someone_ ruined Church’s camera using an AED on his corpse, and since no one thought to tape the Ouija board thing.” He looked at Sarge, who reddened and glared. 

“Yeah, sounds great,” Church said sarcastically. “And when like one of our millions of fans sees me and goes, ‘Hey, isn’t that the missing amnesia patient?’ we’ll just say to the cops, ‘It’s okay, it’s actually just Church. You know, the _Fighting Ghosts_ guy who died months ago?’ I’m sure the cops will believe us.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Tucker said. Church stared at him, betrayed, and his expression softened. “If you can talk to ghosts, you can ask them about this possession thing, see if...see if it’s permanent.”

“Oh,” Church said. There was a lump in his throat. He imagined living with uncertainty, never knowing if one night he was going to go to sleep and wake up in the afterlife. He coughed. “Yeah. Actually, that’s a good point. That lady ghost at the Harrington House never mentioned this was a possibility, but maybe another ghost would know more. And, uh, besides, we should do it for science.”

“Oh gosh, Church!” Caboose gasped. His eyes shone. “You could be the very first ghost scientist! That would be so cool! You could interview Casper and write about it!”

Church exchanged a look with Tucker, their affection mirroring each other. He laughed. “You know what, Caboose? If Casper is real, I will introduce you. I promise.”

“So what should we call you for the show?” Simmons asked. “You can’t go by Church. If we try to tell people who you are, they’ll just claim we’re trying to con the viewers. You need a fake name.”

The air filled with ridiculous suggestions, every one worse than the last. Seriously, Church pitied any future pets of these guys. He waited it out, until finally they'd all run out of stupid names.

"Well?" Donut asked. "We need an alias."

Church meant to make fun of their ideas. Instead his lips parted, and he listened to himself speak. 

"Call me Jimmy." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both Cheney's and the Crimson Moon Tavern are real establishments in Wilmington.


	8. cradled your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was pretty funny, he supposed, that all it had taken for him to get everything he’d wanted was to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! Sorry, real life is kicking my ass at the moment. I'd say it'll let up soon, but it won't. 
> 
> Also this chapter was originally intended to be shorter and minus a sex scene, but _someone_ (Tucker) happened.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Call me Jimmy.”

Everyone looked confused, except for Donut, who looked thoughtful. He cocked his head to the side. “Are you sure? I would’ve gone with something like Sam Wheat or Malcolm Crowe.”

Church, a little weirded out by his own suggestion, took a second to recognize the names. He shook his head, smiling despite his unease and the start of a headache. “Sorry, Donut. Using a ghost’s name is a little too on the nose for me.”

Donut sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Hey, Donut,” Grif said. Church knew by his smirk that he was about to be an asshole. Sure enough, the next words out of his mouth were, “Church could still re-enact the pottery scene from Ghost. Tucker, want to volunteer?”

“Shut up, Grif,” Church said flatly, and then fought back a flush as Tucker grinned. A newly familiar heat warmed Tucker’s eyes. Whatever Tucker was about to say was forestalled by the sudden rumbling of Church’s stomach. Sudden nausea caught him by surprise, compounding the headache. He grimaced. The universe had dropped him into a new body, and he was letting it run on fumes. “Fuck, I never did eat that sandwich.”

Weirdly, Donut looked intrigued. “You’re hungry, but not for sandwiches. Interesting…. Is there anything else you’re craving?” He lowered his voice to a confiding whisper. “It’s okay, no judgment here! We’ll get you what you need!”

“Donut,” Church said with a sigh, realizing almost too late where Donut was going with his earnest reassurances. “I’m not a zombie. I just forgot to eat.” He ignored Donut’s vaguely disappointed expression and retreated to the kitchen as Tucker laughed.  

The food and a glass of water helped with the headache and nausea. He was nearly done with his sandwich and wondering if his stomach could take a second one when he sensed movement behind him. He turned, and blinked at a silent Caboose standing in the doorway. Usually Caboose burst into rooms like a derailing train. Church frowned.

“You okay, Caboose?”

Caboose kept staring. He didn’t cry again, but his eyes were suspiciously bright as he said, “I missed you.”  

Church sighed. He finished the sandwich and braced himself for another hug. “Yeah, I know. Come here. You get one more hug, because I was the dumbass who didn’t listen and got myself--” The rest of his apology was lost as Caboose beamed and pounced. “Watch the ribs, rookie!”

“Sorry,” Caboose said, still beaming. His arms loosened a little, but Church was still trapped in the hug. “I talked to you a lot when you were gone, but I guess you couldn’t hear, except when we used the Ouija board. But so much happened! Everyone was sad a lot, but also Bethany’s going to have a baby! I said she should name him after you--”

“Oh, fuck, I hope she said no,” Church said, laughing breathlessly and ignoring the ache in his chest. “I wouldn’t wish the name Leonard on anyone.”

Caboose blinked. “Leonard? I asked her to name him Church.” He sighed. “She said no.”

Church snorted. “Right.” He squirmed a little, testing Caboose’s grip, but he knew from experience that he wasn’t getting out of Caboose’s hug without intervention. Still, he’d missed Caboose’s hugs more than he’d admit. For a second he just let Caboose cling to him. But his headache wasn’t quite gone, and he was still starving. “I need to finish eating, Caboose.”

“Okay,” Caboose said, and didn’t move.

“Caboose….”

“Okay,” Caboose repeated with another disappointed sigh. This time he let Church go.

Church hadn’t missed Caboose’s patented kicked puppy look. It was his turn to sigh as he patted Caboose’s arm. “Why don’t you make some popcorn? Grif hasn’t had food in an hour. He’s probably about to eat Simmons.”

“Nah, he had an emergency Twinkie in his pocket,” Tucker said. He leaned against the door. His gaze flickered between Caboose and Church, though it lingered on Church. “Besides, the party’s over.”

Caboose blinked. “There was a party?” He glanced upwards and frowned. “I don’t see any balloons.”

“Figure of speech, Caboose,” Tucker said with a half-fond look. “Simmons is going to take you home.” Caboose’s face started to fall, and Tucker added quickly, “You can catch up with Church on the drive tomorrow. We’ll carpool together.”

Caboose lit up.  

“Sounds fun,” Church said dryly, resigning himself to a long drive, and sighed as Caboose beamed at him.

“You were really going to kick us out without feeding us?” Grif asked, shoving past Tucker and making a beeline towards the fridge. “Cold, man. I thought we’d bonded-- oh hey, pizza! Thanks.”

Tucker ignored Grif’s yelped protest as he snatched the plate away and set it in front of Church. “That’s for Church, fat-ass. Now get out of my house.”

Grif squinted at him. “Dude, we _just_ got Church back.” Then understanding filled his face and he grinned like the asshole he was. Church started eating his sandwich again, hiding his hot face behind the food as Grif smirked at them. “Right. Caboose, let’s get going.” He grabbed Caboose’s elbow and steered him towards the door, tossing a smug, “You can thank me tomorrow for my loose lips,” over his shoulder.  

Tucker flipped him off. “Fuck that. Dudes in glass houses can’t talk about crushes.”

It took Church a second to parse that. He swallowed the latest bite of pizza with difficulty. “Does that mean you have dirt on Grif?”

Grif pushed Caboose into the family room and turned, his eyes narrowed. “No, he doesn’t. And even if he did, he’s keeping his damn mouth shut. Or else I’m telling the story of how exactly I found out he had a big crush on you.”

As Tucker groaned loudly, Grif looked back at Church. His expression changed. He cleared his throat. “Uh, anyway, it’s good to have you back, man. Maybe _Point/Counterpoint_ won’t be such a shit-show anymore. All of these idiots make even dumber points than you did.”

“Hey, I thought the one you did with Sarge was great,” Tucker protested. He grinned and explained to Church, “I think that was a record on how many different ways Sarge could insult him.”

“Yeah, it was hilarious,” Grif said flatly. Then he folded his arms. “Seriously, man. These last few months sucked. I’ve had enough sad Caboose to last a lifetime, so, uh. Stick around.” He looked everywhere but at Church, like he was embarrassed by his own sincerity.

The words caught Church by surprise, though they shouldn’t have. He’d worried about Caboose, and had wanted to see Tucker and Junior again, terribly, desperately, but he hadn’t had much time to miss the rest of their weird group of friends. He would have, eventually. He imagined himself floating in the void, doing a _Point/Counterpoint_ with a non-existent Grif on why the afterlife was fucking bullshit, and smiled slightly. He cleared his throat. “I’ll try.”

In the living room, Simmons sighed loudly and said, reluctance dripping off every syllable, “I’m going to regret this, but Doc, could I have your aunt Magnolia’s number? I have questions.”          

 

* * *

 

“Jimmy, huh,” Tucker said, after he’d finally pried Caboose off Church (Caboose had wanted one last hug) and convinced him to get into Simmons’ car. He looked Church over slowly. “I guess you do look like a Jimmy.”

Church rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t talk shit about people’s names, _Lavernius_.”

Tucker pointed a finger. “Hey, Lavernius is a way better name than Jimmy. And it comes from my mom. She told me Laverne means...uh, fuck, I don’t remember, something about spring? Trees?” He shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t actually give a shit, and we’re wasting time.”

Church raised his eyebrows, playing dumb as Tucker moved closer. He glanced at the mantelpiece clock. Junior would be getting home in an hour. “Oh yeah? But we have plenty of time. We could talk about how long you’ve been pining after me like a teen girl. Or how you apparently blabbed your feelings to Grif--”

Tucker kissed him, even more urgently than before.

Church immediately forgot about everything else. He clutched at Tucker’s shoulders, almost overbalancing himself as he tried to match Tucker kiss for kiss. When Tucker drew back, Church made a noise that he’d be embarrassed about later. Right now, though, he was shameless with impatience. They’d wasted too much time already.

He leaned down for another kiss, and caught Tucker’s cheek instead as Tucker shook his head and said breathlessly, “Couch.”

“Couch?” Church said. A second later understanding hit him, and he swallowed. “Right. Couch. Good idea.”

“ _Great_ idea,” Tucker corrected him, grinning.

The few steps it took to get to the couch felt like an eternity, and then Church let Tucker push him down onto the cushions. His bruises protested as he fell against the back pillows. The pain cleared some of his mind. He licked his lips, uncomfortably aware of his too-long limbs, his unfamiliar scars, that Tucker was kissing and now straddling a stranger.

“Tucker,” he said, and his tone made Tucker pause in the middle of leaning in for another kiss and frown at him. “It’s a little weird, right? That I look like this?” He waved a hand at himself. “If it’s too weird, we could slow down--” He stopped when Tucker snorted.

“Church. I hate to break it to you, but you weren’t that hot before. We all make sacrifices in relationships. This one’s mine.” Church might have fallen for that bullshit, if Tucker hadn’t reached out and stroked his thumb across the bridge of his nose, where Church’s glasses would have perched three months and another body ago, and then cradled Church’s face in his hands.    

Church smiled despite himself. His cheeks pressed into Tucker’s palms. “You’re such a goddamn liar.”

“Fine. I miss the glasses. They really got me off,” Tucker said. “Can you get some fake ones?” He looked over Church again, even more slowly than before. One hand touched Church’s stitches with light, careful fingers. “I can work with the Frankenstein look, though.”

Church ran his hand down Tucker’s back, savoring the way Tucker’s breath caught as his hand settled at the small of his back. Tucker shuddered under his palm, and his breath caught again as Church rubbed his thumb across the thin fabric there. “You’re thinking of Frankenstein’s creature. And most of his look was made up by Hollywood. Mary Shelley didn’t include stitches or bolts in his neck,” he said, just to feel Tucker shudder again, this time from an exasperated groan.

“Oh, fuck, no one cares except maybe Simmons.” Tucker dropped his hands to Church’s shoulders and leaned in until their faces were almost touching. Church could feel Tucker’s breath against his lips. It was distracting, until Tucker said, “Church, I know you’re fucking _with_ me, but we could actually _be_ fucking.”

“Right,” Church said faintly. He closed the distance.

Tucker shuddered under his hand and against his mouth, and then collapsed against him, a wonderful, terrible weight. Tucker thrust against him, his dick rubbing against Church’s stomach through too many layers of clothing. Church groaned in frustration when he tried to arch his hips and found the angle all wrong. For once he was grateful for his new, larger body. He easily manhandled Tucker sideways and over, until he lay outstretched on the seat cushions and Tucker was half-straddling him again.

“Yeah, the farm boy strength works for me too,” Tucker said, and didn’t give Church time to answer. He thumbed both of their jeans open and shoved them and their boxers down with shaking, hurried hands. Then his hips rolled against Church’s.

Now Church could match him thrust for thrust. He lost himself in sensation. He kissed Tucker’s mouth and his throat, then tried and missed kissing the hand that clutched his shoulder. Tucker’s other hand clutched Church’s hip, his fingers digging into the skin there. All the small aches and pains his protesting body made were easily ignored.

He could have kept going like this forever, but already he could feel himself nearing the edge. Sweat stung his stitches, the shallow cut on his cheek. When Tucker slid his hand between their bodies and squeezed their erections together, Church nearly came that second. He _was_ going to come, too soon and messily, like he had fumbling and tongue-tied that first time with Tex. Impatience and arousal drowned out any thought of embarrassment.

Tucker squeezed again, thumbing the tip of Church’s cock, and Church groaned, his hips jerking helplessly. “Jesus Christ!”

“Thought you’d like that,” Tucker said smugly, and did it again.

Church’s breath caught in his chest. He banged his head against the armrest, but the pain was lost beneath the pleasure. For a long moment he lay stunned, and then Tucker’s fingers released his still-sensitive dick. Even that light touch made him ache.

Church swore and reached down, blindly fumbling for Tucker’s cock. He was rewarded by Tucker’s groan as his fingertips brushed the inside of Tucker’s thigh. When he opened his eyes, the look on Tucker’s face made him almost forget what he was doing. For a second he was pinned beneath the weight of Tucker’s expression, overwhelmed by the affection and desire.

Then he recovered. He shoved at Tucker’s hip until Tucker shifted back into a kneeling position. Now Church jerked him off, hard and fast, the way he’d always imagined Tucker liked it. Judging by the way Tucker groaned low in his throat and arched into his grip, he’d been right. He grinned, drinking in the way arousal had chased every other emotion from Tucker’s face.

“Thought you’d like that,” he teased back, and laughed when Tucker tried to give him the finger and then clutched at the back cushion instead as Church rubbed his thumb over Tucker’s balls.

When Tucker came, it was without warning, a half-strangled shout between his clenched teeth. He slumped against the side of the couch, half of his weight on Church’s hip as he gasped for breath. When Church sat up, Tucker draped a heavy arm across his shoulders and tugged him close, both of them shifting around until his head was settled against Tucker’s chest. Tucker’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. It was soothing. Church could fall asleep, listening to Tucker’s heartbeat. 

“Jesus, Church,” Tucker said above him, laughing softly. The couch shifted a little, and he felt Tucker’s lips against the top of his half-shaved head. “That was worth the wait. Want to go for round two after Junior goes to bed?”

A new longing seized Church. He wanted to see Junior, tell him that ‘Uncle Church’ wasn’t as dead as everyone had thought, give him a hug. Fuck, he even wanted to read the stupid Pete the Cat book to him. His eyes stung, his throat tight. He swallowed. He didn’t lift his head from Tucker’s chest.

He forced his voice to lightness. “Yeah, well, speaking of round two, my clothes are going to need another round in the washing machine. Tell me you can run out and buy me some new clothes tomorrow before we leave for the show.”

“Yeah, about that,” Tucker said. Church inwardly groaned. That was his ‘Caboose broke another $200 camera’ voice. “We’re leaving right after Junior goes to school. It’s an eleven-hour drive. So Donut and Doc are shopping tonight.”

Church sighed. He liked Donut, but their ideas of comfortable clothing didn’t tend to match. He raised his head and fixed Tucker with a look. “You trust Donut to pick out appropriate clothes?” Another thought struck him, and he winced. “We’re stuck in a car with Caboose for _eleven goddamn hours_? Where are we driving to, the fucking _moon_?”  

Tucker shrugged, unapologetic. “I trust Donut more than any of our other dumbass friends. At least you know it’ll match your new skin tones. And what? Did you really think Caboose wouldn’t insist on riding with you? I just took one for the team and agreed to be in the car with you both. And we’re going to Indiana. Now, hop back into that bathrobe while I clean up and put our clothes in the wash.”

“Yeah, enjoy the view,” Church said, resigning himself to having a very long day the next morning. Then, before he could second-guess himself about being too clingy after sex, he leaned forward and kissed Tucker again. “And we should come up with some way to explain this to Junior.”

Tucker shrugged. “I think I’ve got it.”

Church eyed him skeptically.

Tucker’s gaze slid away from him. He scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, I think I have a box of your clothes in the spare bedroom. They’ll probably be too small, but....”

Church sucked in a breath at the unexpected emotional gut-punch. He remembered finding one of Tex’s old shirts a few weeks after they’d broken up, giving into the temptation to press it to his face and breathe in her scent like some broken-hearted loser. The idea of Tucker doing something similar, of Tucker _grieving_ , hurt like a bitch.

He cleared his throat. Again, he forced his voice to lightness. “So you guys didn’t donate all my shit to Goodwill? Good to know.”  

Tucker laughed shakily. “Yeah, apparently even Goodwill is too good for all your stupid nerd shirts.”

Church stood, letting go of Tucker reluctantly. “I’ll go change.”

 

* * *

 

Junior came barreling through the front door a half-hour later and skidded to a stop when he spotted Church. He stared curiously.

Church opened his mouth and realized he had no idea what to say. He glanced over at Tucker, whose vaguely panicked expression said that he was seriously considering using the ‘sometimes when two people love each other, one will come back as a ghost’ explanation he’d joked about earlier.

Church looked back down at Junior. Was it his imagination, or had Junior grown in the last few months? Otherwise he looked the same, like no time had passed at all. Emotion half-choked Church as he knelt. “Hey, Junior.” His old clothes had been mostly too small, but he was making do with a pair of sweatpants and the tank top he’d used to sleep in. He watched Junior squint at all the exposed bruises and stitches. “Uh, this is going to sound weird, buddy, but, uh, I’m Church.”

Junior’s eyes narrowed. He said something. Apparently even in this new body Church couldn’t understand him, but the skeptical tone was hard to miss. It somehow wasn’t surprising that Junior would take more convincing than Caboose, but still Church’s mind went blank.

Church looked up at Tucker. “A little help here?”

Tucker cleared his throat. He crouched so that he was eye-level with Junior. His shoulder brushed Church’s, warm and grounding. Tucker’s expression softened, the panic easing to affection. “Junior. Remember when I promised to never lie to you?”

Slowly Junior nodded.

“Good.” Tucker was quiet for a moment. “Remember how I told you I wasn’t sure there was a Heaven, but that if Heaven was real, I knew that Church would watch out for us?”

Another slow nod.

“Well, we don’t know how or why, but he got to come back and stay with us. Not in his old body, but in this one, but it’s Church, I promise--”

Junior’s eyes widened. He stared at Church and shouted, “Uncle Church!”

Church, unprepared, almost fell backwards as Junior barreled into him. Only Tucker’s steadying hand kept him and his armful of Junior from tumbling against the couch. Church laughed a little. He hugged Junior while Junior babbled excitedly through his tears. For a second Church couldn’t breathe.

It was pretty funny, he supposed, that all it had taken for him to get everything he’d wanted was to die.

When Junior paused, Church blinked away his own tears. “Hey, buddy. I missed you too.” He closed his eyes as Tucker’s lips brushed the top of his head in a light kiss, and then opened them as Junior giggled and squirmed.

Tucker kept ruffling Junior’s hair for another second, ignoring his protests, and then stood up. “Let’s celebrate with some pizza,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And not leftovers. I’ll go order the usual.”

“Pickles!” Junior said.

Tucker laughed. “Yeah, yeah, the place with the pickles. I remember.”

As Tucker went in search of his phone, Junior leaned against Church, his arms wrapped around Church’s neck. His face was tear-stained but beaming.

Church held him close, ignoring any protesting bruises. “So, I’ve been gone for three months,” he said. “Won a basketball scholarship yet?”

Junior squinted at him the way he did whenever he thought Church was being weird. “No,” he said. Then he blinked, excitement suddenly filling his face, and asked a question.

Church caught a familiar name. He hazarded a guess. “Casper? Uh, I didn’t meet him.” Junior sighed, his small shoulders slumping, and Church laughed. “I know. Caboose will be disappointed too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Church lingered by the foot of Tucker’s bed and tried to let his good fortune sink in.

In the bathroom, Tucker was brushing his teeth and humming a half-familiar tune. Another minute, and he’d come out and suggest round two, now that Junior was asleep. Church warmed at the thought. He plucked at his sweatpants and wondered if he should strip down to his boxers and save them both some time.

“Hey,” Tucker said, appearing in the bathroom doorway with a grin. His gaze traveled leisurely over Church’s body. The hot look was like a physical caress, Church’s heart beginning to pound in his ears. Tucker’s grin widened. “Ready for round t--”

“Dad? Uncle Church?”

Church’s arousal was doused by the sound of Junior’s quiet voice.

Disappointment flickered across Tucker’s face, before concern replaced it. When Church turned towards the door, he saw why. Junior was clutching his Pete the Cat toy and looking anxious. Tucker said gently, “Hey, Junior. We thought you were asleep.”

Junior mumbled something. His eyes were fixed on Church.

Tucker sighed. He stepped forward and pulled Junior close. Junior clung to him, burying his face against Tucker’s stomach. “I know, kiddo. But he’s still here.” As the words sunk in and Church remembered Tucker mentioning Junior’s nightmares at the Ouija board, Tucker added with forced cheer, “And hey, you get two for the price of one tonight.”

Junior looked at Church again. This time Church was prepared when Junior hugged him. Pete the Cat’s head dug into his rib-cage. Ruffling Junior’s hair, he swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “Sorry, Junior. I know it’s been a bad couple of months.” Junior muttered agreement.

Church met Tucker’s eyes. His stomach twisted, remembering how Tucker had asked if they could talk to more ghosts and find out if this was permanent. He swallowed again. He smoothed a hand over Junior’s soft fade, this time letting his touch linger. Keeping his eyes on Tucker, he said to Junior, “Listen. I can’t promise you I’m sticking around. I don’t know why I got to come back. But I want you to know that if I get a choice, I’m choosing to stay with you and your dad. I’ll always make that choice. I promise.”

Junior didn’t respond immediately, his head motionless beneath Church’s hand. Then he loosened one arm and waved at Church’s face, his pinky finger sticking out of the fist. After a second, Church realized what he was asking. The tightness in his throat loosened enough that he could laugh. He linked pinkies with Junior and repeated, “I promise.”

Tucker clapped his hands. If his voice was a little rough, Church wasn’t going to call him on it. “Okay, bedtime. I get the middle of the bed!”

“I want the middle,” Junior said. At least that’s what Church thought he’d said.

Sure enough, Tucker grinned and stuck out his tongue. “Tough luck. I called dibs.”

“Dad,” Junior whined. His pout dissolved into giggles as Tucker pried him from Church and half-tossed him onto the bed. He flailed, bare feet narrowly avoiding Tucker’s face. Junior held Pete the Cat up. “Pete wants the middle!”

“Sorry, Pete. Dibs,” Tucker said with a shrug, as though that was the only argument he needed. “Now get under the covers.” As Junior sighed but obeyed, Tucker whispered to Church, “You better kiss all my bruises tomorrow. Junior kicks like a goddamn horse.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice,” Church said dryly.

It wasn’t the night he’d envisioned, but Church couldn’t regret the interruption as he slid under the covers next to Tucker. He turned his head into the pillow as Tucker leaned over him to turn off the lamp. The faint scent of the coconut hair butter Tucker used tickled his nose.  

A small hand patted Church’s arm. “Goodnight,” Junior said around a yawn.

“Goodnight,” Church said. The day caught up with him in one rush. His entire body felt weighed down by exhaustion. The bed almost seemed to spin. He was glad he had his eyes closed.

“Night,” Tucker said. His arm settled across the small of Church’s back. His lips brushed Church’s ear, and he whispered, “Night,” in a tone that promised round two had only been delayed for a private moment, not abandoned.

Smiling, Church started to answer. He fell asleep between one breath and the next.

He slept and two memories collided together in his mind.

_Nervous. He was nervous, and the motion-sickness from the bus was twisting his stomach all up in knots. His legs ached from being stuck on a bus for almost a day, and even kneading them didn’t really help. If he’d told his mom about his plans, she would’ve forced him to take Dramamine. He should’ve bought some, even if it meant sleeping ninety percent of the trip. At least then he wouldn’t be nervous, stiff, and vaguely nauseous. When he tried to distract himself with a drink, he almost dropped the bottle. Half of the water spilled onto his shoes._

_“Great,” he said glumly, and then jumped a foot in the air, his seat belt almost cutting his stomach in two, as a little voice asked, “Do you need a napkin?”_

Church’s hands were numb. He’d long since lost all feeling in his fingers. He had to keep looking over at Caboose to convince himself that he hadn’t accidentally let go, that they were still holding onto each other. At least the numbness meant his head didn’t hurt like a bitch. Then again, that was probably a bad sign. He worked his jaw and said, “Keep talking, Caboose. You were telling me about your sisters, remember? All fucking million of them.” 

“O-Okay, Church,” Caboose said. Church tried to focus on his face, which was stained a gory red where the sea spray hadn’t washed the blood away, but his eyes ached from the sun-glare and the salt. Caboose sounded half-asleep as he asked, “Who was I talking about?”

Alarm kicked Church’s exhausted body slightly more awake. “Don’t fall asleep on me, rookie. Esther. You were telling me about Esther.”

_The little girl had demanded the window seat at the beginning of the trip and then fallen asleep almost immediately, her face smushed against the glass. He’d smiled nervously at her parents and kept as far away as possible._

_Now she watched him with interest, a napkin in a hand that, if his cousins were any indication, was horribly sticky._

_“Thank you,” he said, and used the napkin to dab uselessly at his soaked sneakers._

_He realized too late that he’d made a mistake. Beside him, the little girl took his acceptance of the napkin as an invitation to talk. She peered up at him. “Why are you going to New York? I live there with my moms.” She didn’t wait for an answer, adding, “We went to Atlanta for Mommy Vera. She had a conference.” She pronounced the last word carefully, her small face scrunching up with effort._

Caboose brightened. “Right! Esther! She just got a really cool job!”

Church waited. Then he realized that details weren’t coming and sighed. The deep breath made his head pound despite the numbness. He winced. When he brought his free hand up to his forehead, it came away wet. His wound was bleeding again. Trying to distract himself, he asked, “What’s the job?”

“She gives snakes milk.” Then Caboose frowned. “No, that’s not right. She milks snakes. I didn’t know snakes had milk, but I guess they do! I guess they don’t make a lot, because I've never seen snake cheese at the grocery store, but maybe she sells it to really nice restaurants.”

Church’s head throbbed. Despite the pain, he managed to say, “It’s not actually milk, Caboose. She’s getting the venom from the snakes. It helps make anti….anti….” He couldn’t think of the word. His stomach roiled.

_“Oh,” he said and laughed nervously. He touched his wallet, which he’d put in the cargo bag on the back of the seat in front of him, alongside his charging phone, just so he’d stop panicking that he’d left his wallet behind every thirty minutes. “Well, it’s kind of a secret. I didn’t even tell my mom where I was going.”_

_The girl frowned. “You shouldn’t keep secrets from your mommy!”_

_“Nadine, are you bothering that man?” asked one of her mothers. “Sherry, she gets that from you.”_

_“No, she gets that from you,” Sherry said, sounding unconcerned. “And she wouldn’t be bothering him if you didn’t hate to fly.”_

_“No, she’d be bothering someone else on the flight,” Vera retorted, and the two women fell into a round of cheerful bickering._

_A pang of envy hit him between the ribs. He wanted that marriage, where even the arguments sounded well-worn. He lowered his voice and whispered to the little girl, “Can you keep a secret?”_

“Church?” Caboose’s worried voice sounded far away. “Church!”

“What is it, rookie?” Church said, or tried to. He couldn’t hear himself over the roaring in his ears. Was he still holding Caboose’s hand? He had to keep holding Caboose’s hand, or else they’d get separated and then they’d both die alone. At least this way they’d die together. He forced his eyes open, but everything was a smudged blur.

“Church, you said not to go to sleep,” Caboose said. “We promised! You can’t break a promise!”

Something touched Church’s face. Caboose’s other hand, he realized after a long, stupid moment of confusion. Clumsy fingers patted Church’s cheek and almost went up his nose. Church would have laughed or swore, even he wasn’t so tired.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “I’ve always been pretty shit at keeping my promises. Tex can tell you.”  

_The girl’s eyes widened. “Yes!”_

_The words tumbled out in a torrent. “I’m going to New York to get a ring for my girl. I want to propose, but I thought why get a regular ring from Atlanta? I’m going to get her a ring from some fancy shop in New York, so she can tell everyone that I took a twenty-two hour bus ride just to find her the perfect engagement ring.”_

_“Oh,” the girl said. She looked a little disappointed. “I thought you were running away from home.”_

_He laughed and then looked up as the bus came to a stop and the driver announced, “We’re now arriving at the Delaware stop. Please let passengers disembark. Anyone who’s continuing with us to New York should stretch their legs while they can. We’ll be getting back on the road in about twenty minutes.”_

_He was upright before he knew it, untangling himself hastily from his seat belt. “I’m going to talk a quick walk,” he said. He was outside and breathing in the night air before he realized that he’d left his wallet and phone behind._

Church lost track of time, or maybe just lost consciousness. He winced as Caboose patted his face again and shouted, “And Hannah just had twins! I bet you can’t guess their names, Church!”

Church groaned. There was an even louder roaring in his ears. It was impossible to think. “Rookie, there are like fifty fucking billion names in the word. I’m not going to guess.”

“That’s okay,” Caboose said, and the calmness in his voice forced Church’s eyes open. His face was still blurry, but Church thought he was smiling. “I can tell you about it in the hospital.”

“The hospital? Caboose, we’re--” Church said, and then stopped. Now he recognized the roaring. It was the familiar sound of helicopter’s rotors above them. “Well,” he said faintly. “I guess we’re not going to die.”

“No,” Caboose said happily. “We’re going to the hospital, and then we’re going to stay very best friends!”

_He could manage a quick walk around the block and back. He broke into a half-jog, sighing in relief as he stretched his legs. He smiled to himself as he turned the corner onto the campus. He pictured her face when she saw the ring. He hoped he could find something with amethyst in it. That was her favorite gemstone. If he could find that, everything would be just perfect--_

_Lights blinded him. He started to throw an arm across his face. Instead, something struck him, hard, and he was flying. Flying and falling._

_His thoughts splintered._

_He was supposed to be getting back on the bus, not staring at the stars obscured by bushes that he’d somehow landed under_ . He needed to hold onto Caboose so the idiot didn’t float away before the pararescue could get down to them. _The grass was wet under him._ The sea spray was still painfully cold, but now he didn’t mind. _He needed to get up._ He needed to hold on. _He needed--_

_“Sorry,” he gasped, and died._

“Shit!” Church said, and thrashed upright. The room was dark, lit only by moonlight trickling through the window. His head felt like it was being split in two. He clutched at it, as though he could crush the disjointed memories if he tried hard enough.

“Church?” Tucker sat up. His hand brushed Church’s shoulder, settled upon the back of Church’s neck. “What’s wrong? Shit, is it your head? Should I call--”

“No,” Church said before Tucker could suggest 911, or worse yet, Doc. “Just….” He shook off the ghostly feeling of wet grass against his back. He took one deep breath, and then another. Slowly the pain in his head eased, enough that he didn’t feel like he was going to be sick. He wiped sweat from his face. “I’m okay.”

Junior sat up too. “Uncle Church?”

Church bit back another curse. “Sorry, Junior. It’s okay. I just had a nightmare. Go back to sleep, okay?”

Another quick lisping mumble from Junior, and then Pete the Cat was pressed into Church’s hands. He laughed shakily, tucking the toy under his arm. “Thanks.” He lay back down, glad that neither Tucker nor Junior could see his expression in the dim light.

Tucker ran a hand down Church’s neck, wiping away the sweat there. “Want to talk about it?”

“I’ve already forgotten it,” Church said honestly, lowering his voice to a whisper in case Junior was falling back to sleep. He frowned, trying to grab at the fragments of memory that remained. “I was back on the ocean with Caboose, but there was a little girl? And a ring? Or maybe a bus.” He shrugged. He guess he should've expected weird nightmares after all the crazy shit they'd been through. Trying to distract himself, he said, “Where are we going in Indiana, anyway?”

“Uh, Seymour or something? I don’t know, man, Donut chose this one. I think it’s called the Gateway House? The Gates House?” The bed shifted as Tucker shrugged. He curled against Church's back. Any other time, Church would've made a token protest about being the little spoon, but now he welcomed it, steadying himself with grounding weight of Tucker's leg slung over his hip. “He said train robberies were exciting, and these ghosts had a whole mysterious backstory.”

Church smiled. The last of his headache eased. He shifted Pete the Cat so that he was holding it against his chest. Tucker's breath was warm against his neck. “Let me guess. He's hoping for a love triangle between him, Doc, and some train robber ghost.”

Tucker snorted. "Probably." 

Church relaxed. This time, when he slept, he didn't dream.


	9. an army of yesterdays’ ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Vanessa Kimball, current owner of the Gates House, said flatly. Then she glanced up at the ceiling and bared her teeth. “But if they exist, these two are fucking assholes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! This fic was supposed to be self-indulgent and pressure-free, and instead it took me two weeks just to write one particular scene. But we're in the home stretch! One more chapter!
> 
> Thanks goes out to CC for coming up with Church's Donut-designed outfit for this chapter.

It had been nine hours since Church had gotten into the car with Caboose, and he was beginning to think that the previous day had been a dying delusion and that he was actually in Hell. Not that he _believed_ in Hell, but if one existed, it would probably involve being trapped in a car with Caboose trying to cram three months worth of Caboose family drama into eleven hours.  

“And  _then_ Abigail and Bethany got into a fight over what kind of pie is better, rhubarb or pumpkin, and they didn’t speak for a whole week!” Caboose prattled happily. “But Mom made them make up, because everyone knows apple pie is the best-- Punch Buggy!”

Church managed to dodge the wildly swinging arm by pressing himself against the dashboard. Caboose’s fist barely grazed his shoulder.

Stuck behind the steering wheel, Tucker wasn’t so lucky. “Ow! Fuck! Caboose, I told you we’re not playing that stupid game.”

Caboose frowned. “Oh, I forgot.” He leaned between the front seats. Glancing between Tucker and Church he asked, “What game _are_ we playing?”

Church sighed. “No game, Caboose. You were telling us about pies.”

“Oh right! My mom’s won the best pie contest for twenty years in a row!” Caboose lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll never ever guess her secret ingredient.”  

Tucker’s face was solemn, but his eyes laughed as he said, “Is it love?”

“ _OH MY GOD, WHO TOLD YOU?_ Was it Naomi? She can never keep a secret. I can’t believe Naomi told you!”

Church’s ears rang as Caboose kept shouting. He wished that Donut had bought ear plugs along with his clothes. He frowned self-consciously at his outfit, a light blue shirt with the Fighting Ghosts logo on it, faded jeans, and a blazer. It was actually pretty subdued for Donut, but it definitely wasn’t Church’s style. Grabbing Tucker’s phone, Church pulled up Google and typed, _Can you be tried for murder if you’re a ghost?_

“Thanks for nothing, Google,” he muttered after a few minutes of squinting at unhelpful Wikipedia pages.

“Hey, Church?”

“Yeah, Caboose?” Church asked absently, still frowning at the phone, and then yelped as Caboose leaned between the seats and hugged him. “Caboose--” His face ended up buried awkwardly in Caboose’s shaggy hair. For a second all he could smell was cucumber and mint.

“Caboose,” Tucker said in a mild tone. “Personal space, remember?”

Caboose sighed but let go, settling back in his seat. Then he brightened. “When we get back to Delaware, I’m going to have my mom make raspberry pie.” Church shouldn’t have been touched that Caboose actually remembered his favorite pie, but he was, a little. Of course Caboose promptly ruined the moment by wrinkling his nose and adding worriedly, “Wait, you have different taste buds now. Does that mean you’ll like different foods? What if raspberry isn’t your favorite anymore?”

Tucker hummed. “As much as I hate to admit it, Caboose has a point. You might like new flavors. What if you’re now that dude who thinks cilantro tastes like soap? Hey, Caboose, maybe your mom should make a lot of pies. We could do some taste-testing, figure out Church’s new favorite.”

Caboose’s eyes widened. “Wow, Tucker. That’s a great idea!”  

Tucker grinned at Church. ‘Free pie. You’re welcome,’ he mouthed, looking pleased with himself, and Church couldn’t help but grin back. Okay, maybe this road trip wasn’t _completely_ horrible.

“Punch buggy!” Caboose shouted.

Church changed his mind.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Vanessa Kimball, current owner of the Gates House, said flatly. Then she glanced up at the ceiling and bared her teeth. “But if they exist, these two are fucking assholes.”

There was a beat of awkward silence, and then Simmons smiled weakly, his gaze darting between Lopez’s camera and Kimball. “Uh, you might be right, ma’am. Why don’t you tell us a little about the house’s history and the supposed ghost sightings?”

Kimball sighed. Some of the hostility left her face as she pinched the bridge of her nose. Now she just looked tired. “Excuse me. I usually don’t have to deal with visitors, and I wasn’t expecting to play tour guide. Doyle was so excited to show you around.”

“Doyle? That would be Donald Doyle, the manager of the gift shop? He was my original contact,” Simmons said. He frowned. “His last email said he was in the hospital. I hope he’s all right.”

“Just a broken leg, but obviously he can’t give the tour himself.” Now Kimball paused. She looked embarrassed. “He says one of the ghosts pushed him down the stairs.” Before any of them could react, she added quickly, “This is a man who once walked into a door marked ‘Pull’ hard enough to break his nose after he’d been working here for six months. I think he’s just embarrassed he fell down the stairs. But you’re ghost hunters, so I know he’d be disappointed if I didn’t mention his ghost theory.”

“Nah, we always like getting first-hand accounts. We can swing by his place tomorrow and interview him before we head out,” Grif said, and then added in a carrying whisper to Simmons, “Dude, if we stick around, there’s a great place nearby. It was on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives! It’s where pork tenderloin sandwiches were _invented._ ”  

“Is it actually nearby, or do you just think Indiana is a tiny state? I’m not driving another six hours on top of the eleven hours we’re already driving for pork sandwiches,” Simmons whispered back, rolling his eyes.

“Uh,” Grif said, frowning, and fished out his phone.

Meanwhile, Kimball brightened. For the first time since she’d met them with a tense smile at the door, her smile warmed to something genuine. “Could you visit him? I didn’t know if you were heading straight back in the morning, but I know he’d love to meet you all. He’s a big fan.” She glanced around and seemed to notice Church for the first time. She studied him as Church tried not to squirm or touch his scars. “You’re new?”

“Yeah,” Grif said morosely, staring down at his phone. Apparently the pork place was nowhere near Seymour. “Meet Jimmy.”

“Jimmy is the new Church!” Caboose explained.

Everyone tensed, but Kimball just nodded, her expression softening. “I see. I can’t imagine what a difficult decision that must have been for you all.” She patted Caboose’s arm and looked around at the group. “Doyle and I donated five percent of the gift shop earnings to the DAV Charitable Service Trust and a few other veteran charities for the month after Church’s death.”

“I understand you’re a veteran yourself, ma’am,” Sarge said in a tone Church had never heard from him before. When he looked over, he could’ve sworn the man was actually blushing.

Kimball straightened. “Served my twenty and retired as a gunnery sergeant.” Then she smiled ruefully. “And then my aunt Miranda passed and I got saddled with this place. Not exactly how I expected to spend my retirement.”

“I’m sure you’re doing a fine job, ma’am!” Sarge said, so fervently that Kimball looked taken aback.

“Gross,” Grif muttered.

Donut, meanwhile, looked charmed by Sarge’s crush. “You two should talk later,” he said, and gave Sarge a way too obvious wink of encouragement. Then he clapped his hands and leaned closer to Kimball, tilting his good side towards Lopez’s camera. “So, I’ve read a little about the Gates House ghosts, but would you mind explaining the history behind the house?” He sighed. “It’s so romantic.”

“Romantic wouldn’t be the word I’d use,” Kimball said dryly. Still she walked over to the fireplace. Two photographs hung on the wall there. She frowned at them. “I don’t know how much you know about the history of train robberies. The first one in the United States was in 1866 by the Reno brothers, and Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch is probably the most famous gang. But around here, we talk about the Reno brothers and the Gates Gang. Not that it was much of a gang. Isaac Gates and Samuel Ortez led the group, but the other members never lasted more than one job.”

She tapped at one of the photos, that of a smirking weasel-faced guy. “Isaac Gates. There’s lots of conflicting reports about him. He was born here in Indiana. He was born in New York. He served in the Union. He served the Confederacy. He never served, just smuggled supplies.” Her finger tapped the edge of the next photo, which had two men. The first man looked awkward and uncomfortable, but a startled smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his companion, an Asian man with a bright grin, was frozen in the act of trying to sling his arm across the man’s broad shoulders. “Somewhere along the line, he met Samuel Ortez. Records show that Ortez fought for the Union, so that maybe then. All we know definitively is that in 1867, Gates, Ortez, and a group of thieves robbed a Lozano Express Car of five thousand dollars, kidnapped the son of the company owner, and attempted to ransom him for another ten thousand dollars. It went badly. The son ended up dead and Gates and Ortez didn’t get a cent. After that, they stuck to train robbery. Over the next eleven months, it’s estimated their successful robberies netted them about $90,000. In eighty percent of the robberies, they attacked the Lozano Express company.”

“After killing the guy’s son?” Tucker said. He snorted. “Sounds like someone had a grudge.”

“Ruben Lozano never explained why these men had targeted him. Instead he offered a ten thousand dollar reward for Gates and Ortez’s heads. He also hired the Pinkerton agency to try and find where Gates and Ortez had hid all their loot. That’s where our final player comes in.”

She tapped the glass again, this time under the Asian man’s face. “Meet Mason Wu, a man who should be in your history books, but isn’t. Wu was the first Chinese-American private detective. He mostly worked within the Chinese-American community, solving crimes and helping people when the local police refused to intervene. When Lozano offered that reward, however, Wu traveled to Indiana and managed to infiltrate the gang.”     

Church looked at Ortez’s bashful smile, Gates’ smirk, and wondered how Wu had managed that.

Donut sighed dreamily. “That’s what I meant. It’s so romantic! Train robberies! Murder! A man pretending to be their friend while planning the ultimate act of betrayal!”

“Right,” Kimball said slowly, side-eyeing him. “Anyway, on March 14, Wu alerted Lozano and the Pinkerton agents on Lozano’s payroll that he’d learned of the gang’s hideout, which was this very house. He’d planned to be out of the house when soldiers stormed the place, but something went wrong. There was a shoot-out with the three men barricaded inside and Lozano’s hired army outside. At the end of it, Gates and Ortez were dead, and Wu was badly wounded. Wu survived, but lost a leg.” She paused and added, “There’s also no indication that Lozano paid him or that the stolen money was ever recovered.”

“Are these the photos?” Tucker asked. Church had been so absorbed by the story that he hadn’t noticed Tucker wandering over to the adjacent wall. Tucker squinted. “That’s weird. It almost looks like Ortez…. But that can’t be right.”

Kimball raised an eyebrow. “The reporters came in with the army and took photos before the bodies were hauled away. It does looks like Ortez shielded Wu with his own body, doesn’t it? We’ll never know if he did, unfortunately. Wu only told the truth of that night to his wife, who also refused to speak to reporters even after his death twenty years later.”

“That’s the part that always gets me,” an unfamiliar voice said, dripping sarcasm from every syllable. “He kept your secret to his grave, Sammy. Wasn’t he such a good _fucking_ friend? I mean, despite stabbing us both in the backs?”

Church tensed, and then pretended to rub at his scarred head like it was bothering him. He looked surreptitiously around. Two men were standing behind Tucker, both shadowy and indistinct at the edges, like they were beginning to dissolve into shadow or smoke. It was harder to see them than the ghost woman had been. Maybe being in a possessed body was some sort of barrier.

Still, he could hear them perfectly well as Ortez sighed and said flatly, “A hundred and fifty years dead and you still talk too much. Mason did what was right.”

“Ugh. I can’t believe it’s been a hundred and fifty years and you still defend him.” Gates stepped closer to Tucker. Church didn’t like the look on his face. “Hey, think any of these idiots can hear us? Look at how many of them have the mark. Can’t you feel the power? Maybe we can make them scream like that last one. Fuck, the sounds he made when he fell down the stairs!” He stroked Tucker’s nape and laughed as Tucker shivered.  

“Don’t,” Ortez said warningly, but made no move to stop him.

Church wondered if he could punch Gates. His possessed body could see the ghosts, but could he touch them like Gates could touch Tucker? His head was beginning to pound just from looking at Ortez and Gates, his eyes watering like he was wearing the wrong prescription, but he desperately wanted to try.

“Tucker,” he said, or tried to. His mouth felt strange, and the name came out rough with pain. Tucker frowned at him. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to focus on the photographs instead of the ghosts. “Come take a closer look at these guys. Gates has the face of a goddamn weasel.”

“A _weasel?_  Oh, I’m going to fucking hurt him, even if he doesn’t have a mark.”

“Are you feeling okay, C--” Tucker caught himself with a wince. He glanced guiltily at Kimball, who seemed too distracted by Donut’s barrage of questions to notice his slip-up. “Jimmy?”

Donut sighed. “So Ortez and Gates haunt the house, forever doomed to wander the place they died?”

“Allegedly,” Kimball said. She waved a hand at their surroundings. “My family turned this place into a museum. They made good money, especially during the height of the Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch’s fame. Ortez and Gates have been dead a hundred and fifty years, but people keep reporting hearing gunshots, seeing books fall off their shelves and photographs fly off the wall, that sort of thing. Wu’s photograph apparently gets thrown to the ground a lot.” She snorted. “None of it has ever been proven, of course. Like I said, if these ghosts are real, they’re assholes. Ineffectual assholes, Doyle’s accident notwithstanding.”

“I should’ve pushed _her_ down the stairs,” Gates said, fixing Kimball with such a malevolent look that Church knew that he wasn’t leaving this house without convincing Kimball that these ghosts were a threat. “Maybe next time.”  

“Hey,” Tucker said. Church blinked when Tucker touched his jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. Tucker’s hand was warm against his skin, and Church realized that he was shivering. Worry grew on Tucker’s face. “Is it your head?”

“Yeah,” Church said and winced at the sound of his voice, all wrong with its strange southern accent. “We should get out of here.”

“Did you hear that, Sammy? I think someone’s scared,” Gates said.

“Is Jimmy okay?” Kimball asked, concerned.

At the name, the pain in Church’s head spiked. He leaned against Tucker, swallowing against nausea, only vaguely aware that Tucker was holding him upright. He could still see Gates, shadowy and smirking, at their right shoulder, and the photograph of Wu and Ortez at their left.

“We need to go,” he said.

“Oh, no one’s going _anywhere_ ,” Gates said. The air around the ghost seemed to darken, his voice echoing through the room. “Sammy, can’t you feel it? All their strength for the taking? Imagine what we could do with that power. Maybe something like _this._ ” He seemed to dissolve into a shadow that towered over Tucker and Church both before it crashed down on them.

It felt like the blood in Church’s veins froze. His legs gave out even as Tucker crumpled as well, still clutching Church so that they both slid together towards the floor. Tucker’s eyes were squeezed shut. When his eyes opened again, they were completely white, all the color leached from them. A malicious smile spread across his face.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” Gates said gleefully. He shoved Church backwards. Church sprawled on the floor as Gates blinked and looked down at Tucker’s hands, clenching and unclenching them. Wonder and envy turned Tucker’s face unrecognizable as Gates stood up. “I can feel things. I can fucking feel things! Sam, you should try this. It’s incredible.”

Caboose bent over Church, looking worried. “Church? Are you and Tucker having a fight?”  

“That’s not Tucker,” Church whispered. He clutched at his head.

“Oh, is it the man you said looks like a weasel?” Caboose said, and straightened. He frowned and folded his arms against his chest, staring Gates down. “Tucker needs his body. Give it back.”

Gates laughed. “Or what, you’ll exorcise me? I’m not a demon. No, I’m sticking around.” Then he turned to Kimball with a smile. She stared at him, her disbelieving expression shifting to astonished horror as he said cheerfully, “Hello, Vanessa. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while. You know, I don’t think you should take that veterans services job in Phoenix and let Doyle run this place. Not when you and I can finally talk.”

“Gates, what do you have in mind? Whatever it is, this isn’t viable long-term,” Ortez said. He hadn’t moved from where he’d first appeared. “We can’t keep these people hostage indefinitely. They’ll starve to death, or people will come looking for them.”

“Maybe,” Gates said. “But I plan on having as much fun as possible until then. We can do so much more than just push losers down the stairs!”

Sarge growled. “What in the Sam Hill is going on?”

“Oh, a ghost possessed Tucker,” Caboose explained. His frown deepened. “And he won’t leave.”

Sarge’s expression lit up before his eyes narrowed. “Damn it. My first time fighting a genuine ghost, and it has to be to save a dirty zoomie. Tucker owes me for this,” he growled, and then whipped out a pistol seemingly from nowhere.

Before Church could yell for Sarge not to shoot Tucker’s possessed body, or pistol-whip it, or whatever was going on in that crazy man’s head, Gates took two quick strides forward and knocked Sarge backwards with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Well, Church thought hazily, barely clinging to consciousness as Sarge hit the far wall, that was bullshit. _He_ hadn’t gotten any superpowers possessing this body. Maybe it was because Tucker was still alive?

“Sarge!” Simmons yelped. Sarge lay motionless. When Lopez scrambled to Sarge’s side and shook him, his usually impassive face anxious, Sarge’s faint groan made Simmons sway with relief. Then he advanced on Gates, his face gray with fear but his eyes blazing. “Get out of Tucker’s body right now, asshole! And apologize to Sarge!”

“Yeah!” Donut said, and then threw fistfuls of herbs into Gates’ face. As Gates coughed and rubbed at his eyes, Donut said triumphantly, “That’s rosemary, rue, juniper and osha, courtesy of Doc!”

Gates sneezed and then scowled. His colorless eyes watered, but otherwise he seemed unaffected by the herbs. “Okay, playtime’s over,” he said. He grabbed Simmons by the throat, lifting him off the ground. He studied Simmons as Simmons choked and turned purple. Even Simmons punching him with his prosthetic fist only made Gates grin wider. “Hey, Ortez, hurry up and hop into someone’s body.”

Church tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. He watched, helpless, as Grif yelled and barreled towards Gates, his eyes fixed on Simmons. Donut was a step behind him, a burning bundle of herbs in his raised fist, and even Kimball shook off her shock and threw herself at Gates.

Gates flung Simmons at Donut and Grif. All three men went down in a tangle of bodies. He caught Kimball’s fist in his hand and then pushed her against the wall, hard enough that she gasped for breath. “Man, you really know how to make a guy feel unpopular.” He sighed. “Sam, I’m waiting.”

“No,” Ortez said. “This is pointless.”

“Pointless? It’s _fun_ ,” Gates exclaimed.

“You’re not a nice person,” Caboose said slowly, like it was a brand-new revelation. He frowned at Gates. “I think you should go away now.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s going to make me?” Gates said, laughing. He stopped laughing when Caboose stepped up to him and wrapped him up in a bone-crushing hug. For the first time since Gates had possessed Tucker, the cockiness left his face. He thrashed in Caboose’s grip. “Ortez!”

Ortez moved. One second he was on the other side of the room, and then next he was behind Caboose, his shadowy edges wrapping around him. Caboose shuddered and lurched to the side, shaking his head wildly.  

“No!” Church said, but it came out as a breathless whisper.

Ortez turned and looked at him, Caboose’s eyes colorless. “Don’t worry,” he said evenly. “I won’t let Gates do any irreparable damage. You don’t have anything we want.”

“Oh, don’t they?” Gates said. He grinned at Kimball, laughing when she glared at him. “What if we could stay in these bodies, Sam? Imagine it. Super strength, the ability to feel again. If we wanted to rob a bank, who could stop us? And even if they did, we can’t die twice.”

Church didn’t let Gates keep talking. He snarled, “No.”

Gates laughed. “I don’t think you have a choice. Exorcisms won’t work, and you’ve seen how we handled your friends. What do you think _you_ can do that they can’t?”

Church looked up at Tucker’s beloved face made almost unrecognizable by Gates’ smirk. Rage choked him. “There’s something you don’t know.”

“Oh yeah?” Gates said, still looking amused. “What’s that?”

“I’m a motherfucking ghost,” Church said, and threw himself out of his body.

It hurt so much that he didn’t even have words to describe the agony, but he didn’t hesitate. Without the weird sluggishness of Church’s stolen body slowing him down, Gates didn’t have time to react as Church slammed into him and Tucker. There was another moment of agony, this time a weird, too-tight sensation like Tucker’s skin was too small for three souls in one body. Then Church and Gates tumbled free, Tucker crumpling to the floor with a groan that would’ve made Church’s knees weak with relief if he’d had physical knees anymore.

Gates’ form flickered wildly. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he looked even less substantial before he’d possessed Tucker, now more shadow than form. He snarled. “What the _fuck_?”  

Church grinned, dodging the tendrils that grabbed for him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ortez watching, though the other ghost didn’t move. Caboose’s normally animated face wore a pensive frown. So far Ortez didn’t seem inclined to help Gates out, but Church kept half his attention on him anyway. “Surprised, asshole? I told you I was a ghost too.” He snorted. “And a better one than you.”

Gates glared. “Fuck you! Ortez, a little help here?”

“No,” Ortez said slowly.

Gates turned. His eyebrows rose. “ _No_?”

“No,” Ortez repeated. He stepped out of Caboose. Caboose crumpled to the floor with a groan. There was an undercurrent of a half-dozen emotions in Ortez’s voice as he held out his hands in appeal and said to Gates, “It’s been a hundred and fifty years. Aren’t you _tired_?”

Gates stared. “What are you talking about? _Tired_? This is the most exciting night I’ve had in a hundred and fifty years! Look, just help me deal with this guy and then--”

Whatever else he was about to say was lost in the crack of a pistol’s shot. Gates stumbled backwards. A hole gaped through his chest, the wall visible behind him for an instant before the wound closed.

“Huh,” Grif said, blinking. The pistol in his hands was still trained on Gates. “I didn’t think that would actually work. Nice.”

Gates touched the spot where the bullet had gone through. He winced as though it had hurt, and Church wondered what the hell was in Sarge’s pistol. “Oh, I’m going to kill all of you.”

“Sure, buddy,” Grif said, and shot him again.

Gates reeled back, straight into Ortez’s arms. Ortez’s arm went around his throat, the other pinning Gates’ arms to his side. Gates squirmed furiously in his grip. “Sam, what are you doing? We’re _partners_.” There was a heavy weight to the final word, and Ortez’s form flickered a little as he flinched.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “We were.” Then he whispered something too low for Church to understood. The sound still made something in Church’s insubstantial body shiver and ache. He clapped his hands over his ears.

Gates screamed. He dissolved into shadow within Ortez’s arms, and then into nothing, the writhing shadows gone as though they’d never existed.

Ortez lowered his arms. He ignored everyone’s stares and said to Kimball, “He won’t trouble you again. I told Mason where our loot was hidden. Otherwise I would offer to pay for Mr. Doyle’s medical bills.”

Kimball scowled. “You can make it up to me by going wherever you sent Gates.”

Ortez blinked, looking oddly startled by the venom in her voice. Then he shook his head. “No. I’ll stay on here as a ghost. Clearly, possessing a living person provides unexpected benefits. You have no mark, but you can still see me. Your museum will be the first of its kind with a ghost that everyone can observe.”

“I don’t give a fuck about money! I don’t want you here!” Kimball shouted, and then glared at Grif as he shrugged and said, “That sounds like a good deal to me. You’ll be a millionaire.”

Church tuned out the rest of the argument. He went over to Tucker, who’d propped himself into a sitting position against the wall, his hand over his eyes. Church knelt in front of him, overwhelmed with relief. From the corner of his eye, he saw Donut fussing over Caboose.

“Hey, Tucker. How’s your head?”

Tucker just groaned. Then his entire body tensed. Slowly he lowered his hand. His eyes went wide as he took in Church’s ghostly form. He reached out and touched Church’s cheek. Church swore he could feel the warmth of those trembling fingers. “Church?”

Church grinned at him. “Yeah.”

Tucker kissed him.

Ortez had been right. Apparently there were benefits to possession, because Church _could_ feel the hot, clumsy kiss. He reached out with his own hands to actually touch Tucker’s shoulders and keep him close, grinning into the kiss.

“Uh,” Simmons said. There was a shrill note of panic to his voice. “Not to interrupt, b-but um--”

“What’s going on?” a voice murmured, one that Church remembered from his dreams. Jimmy blinked in confusion, both of his hands running over the stitches in his head, and squinted at the people surrounding him. He looked dazed and alarmed. “This isn’t New York City.”

It turned out there were downsides to possession too, because Church’s insubstantial stomach felt like it was tying itself in knots. He didn’t have adrenaline, but he still felt his heart rate jump and his breathing catch. He cleared his throat and pasted on a smile. “Uh, hi, Jimmy. You are, uh, definitely not in New York.” Church’s stomach kept twisting. Now it gave hard tug, like someone had wrapped a rope around his intestines and was pulling on them. He stumbled sideways and to his feet as the sharp pull came again. When he clutched at his stomach, his fingers sank through and out his back. “Shit.”

“Church?”

“Fuck this,” Church said through gritted teeth. He met Ortez’s eyes, but the other ghost looked puzzled. He looked over at Caboose, who had sat up with Donut’s assistance. “Rookie.”

“Hey, Church,” Caboose said with a befuddled smile. He sighed, rubbing at his head. “That man wasn’t very nice.” He squinted at Ortez and added, “I don’t know if he’s nice either.”

“Yeah,” Church said. It came out breathless. “Listen, Caboose, I think I have to go away again for a little bit. But I’m coming back, okay?”

Caboose’s face had started to fall, but at Church’s final sentence, it brightened again. “Okay! Where are you going? Oh, are you going to see Casper?”

Church ignored the question. It was easy. Ignoring the fact that he was making a promise he wasn't sure he could keep was harder. He turned towards Tucker. It took effort, the pull on him now feeling like someone was yanking out his insides. “Tucker,” he said, and met Tucker halfway for another kiss. This one was desperate. “I’m coming back. I don’t know how long it’ll take me, hopefully not another three goddamn months but--”

“You’d better,” Tucker said. He cupped Church’s face in his hands and shook him a little. “I’m getting really tired of this ghost bullshit.”

Church laughed. “Me too. Tell Junior not to worry, okay? I'll be back.”

There was one final pull, and then Tucker’s hands were gone, and the house was gone. Just the memory of Tucker's kiss lingered on his lips. 

He’d expected the void. Instead everything was loud around him. People shouted and cursed. The smell of blood was overpowering. With a start, he realized that he recognized this place. The metal of the plane wall was cold against his palm. He and Caboose had been medevaced in a similar Combat King.

“Come on, Connie!” A familiar voice cut through the tumult. “Don’t do this to me!”

Church stared.

There was blood on Tex’s cheek, the red dark in her pale hair, but she was oblivious, scowling down at the woman bleeding out on the cot beneath her. “Come on,” she said again, her voice sharp, as though she could give the dying woman an order to live and it would have to be obeyed. "Keep breathing."  

“Tex,” he whispered.

At the sound of her name, Tex turned. Her face went ashen, her eyes wide, before her expression set to a determined scowl. “If you’re not a hallucination, I need another pair of hands.”

“Right,” he said faintly, and obeyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading up on train robberies was fun. Here are links about the [first ever train robbery](https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/first-u-s-train-robbery) as well as the [Wikipedia article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butch_Cassidy%27s_Wild_Bunch) on Butch Cassidy's gang, both of which I used for inspiration in this chapter. 
> 
> Grif was very excited for [Nick's Kitchen](https://www.eater.com/2018/3/21/17128954/pork-tenderloin-sandwich-indiana-history-nicks-kitchen), which is supposedly where the pork tenderloin sandwich was created. Unfortunately for Grif it was indeed an extra three hour drive from Seymour.


	10. how this is going to end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘From Ghost Hunters to Ghosts: The Otherworldly Tale of the Reds and Blues.’ When I set out last October to write an article about the Reds and Blues, I had no premonition of truly how strange their tale would become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience with this final chapter. I hope you enjoy the conclusion! This was so much fun to write. 
> 
> I am also resisting the urge to write like three other stories in this universe, so you might see more from this AU!

Church was beginning to think that ghost lady at the Harrington House had been talking out of her ass. Instead of forgetting sensation as a ghost, he felt too much. The smell of blood choked him and made his stomach churn. The frantic beeping of the machines Connie was hooked up to hurt his head. Even as he kept pressure on Connie’s wound, he swore that he felt the life ebbing from her. He looked at her colorless face, her closed eyes. He didn’t dare to move one of his hands and feel for a pulse, but she was too still. Alarm tightened his chest. He wondered, distantly, if ghosts could have panic attacks.

“Tex, I don’t think she’s breathing,” he started to say, and then yelped as his hands sank through Connie’s wound and the cot like they’d gone through his own stomach at the Gates House. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, that sums it up,” an unfamiliar voice said.

Church blinked. He was back in the void, but this time he wasn’t alone. Connie floated there too. The color was back in her face, her uniform unbloodied. She frowned at him, her arms folded against her chest. “Explain.”  

“Uh,” Church said. He tried on a reassuring grin. This earned a skeptical look. “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain….”

“Never mind. I’m dead, right? Not that hard to get,” Connie said. She squinted around the white void as Church scowled. “I wasn’t expecting pearly gates, but this is a little sparse.” She blew out a breath, shaking her head. “Crap. Tex is going to be _pissed_.”

“No kidding,” Church said, wincing. He waited for a few seconds in the hope that he’d jump back to Tex’s side, or to Tucker’s. Nothing happened, except Connie did a slow spin to get a better look around. Trying to distract himself from his rising anxiety, he added, “But you know, it just looks like this because you haven’t paid the toll.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Five bucks.”

The skeptical look returned to Connie’s face. “Five bucks. There’s a cover charge for Heaven?”

“Hey, if you’d rather go to Hell,” Church said with a shrug.

“I guess with inflation, two coins doesn’t cut it anymore.” At Church’s blank look, Connie rolled her eyes. “The Ancient Greeks put two coins on the eyes of the dead so they could cross the River Styx and-- never mind. This is clearly bullshit.”

Church pretended to look offended. “Hey, are you calling me a liar?”

“Yeah, and a bad one,” Connie said. Then she sighed, glancing around a second time. “Seriously. Are we stuck in this stupid white void forever?”

Church shrugged. “Maybe? There’s also a black void option.” At her look, he raised his hands to ward off her next sarcastic comment. “That’s what happened when I died!”

Connie’s expression changed. She leaned closer, studying his face. “Wait, I know you,” she said slowly. “You’re Tex’s ex. The one who died last year.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Then panic clawed at Church again. “What day is it?”

“February 26,” Connie said.

Church slumped in relief. “Good. Last time I hopped around, three months passed in the living world.”

“Hopped around?”  

Church hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much to tell her. It didn’t seem like most people did the ping-ponging that he kept experiencing, so he didn’t want to give her false hopes that she could see Tex and the people she loved again. “Look, I’m going to level with you. I don’t know what’s going on. One second I was looking at my own corpse, then I was in a void, then I was possessing some comatose guy’s body, and now I’m here again. A ghost woman told me you have a choice between becoming a ghost and continuing on, but I don’t remember making a choice either way, and uh, she didn’t mention possessing people as an option.”

Connie stared at him. A little plaintively, he said, “It’s been really goddamn weird.”

“Huh, do you think--” Connie stopped abruptly. She tilted her head. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Church asked, before he heard it too. Tex’s distant voice, calling Connie’s name. As he listened, her voice grew louder and more insistent. He swallowed against the jealousy that choked him. He hadn’t heard Tucker calling for him, just Caboose yelling his name during the Ouija board attempt. Fighting against the jealousy, he raised an eyebrow at Connie. “Well? Aren’t you going to answer?”

“I,” Connie said slowly, frowning. “I thi--” She disappeared mid-word.

Church stared around at the emptiness. “So what was the point of that? Can I go back to Tucker now?” he asked, not expecting an answer. He didn’t get one, but when he blinked, he found himself back beside Connie’s cot.

Off-balance, he stumbled as Tex shouldered him aside and covered Connie’s wound with her hands again. Color was slowly returning to Connie’s face, but she still looked groggy and weak. Her half-closed eyes struggled to focus on Tex as Tex said, “Easy, we’ve got you. Just let the plasma and transfusion do its work.”

Church leaned over Tex’s shoulder. Connie’s eyes flickered towards him, and even half-conscious she managed to look cynical when he said, “Now you really do owe me five bucks.”

Connie’s lips parted, but she didn’t have the energy to speak. Church had avoided her sarcasm, at least temporarily. He looked sideways at Tex. His incorporeal heart stuttered in his chest, overwhelmed by too many emotions at once. He touched her shoulder tentatively, feeling the tension there even as his other hand went to help press against Connie’s wound. “Hey, Tex. Sorry about dying.”

“Yeah, well, you should be,” Tex said shortly. Then she turned her head just a little, so that they were face to face. Wonder and grief twisted her face. In a softer voice, she asked, “How are you here?”

“No idea,” Church admitted. “I didn’t exactly get an instruction manual when I died.” He tried to think of how to explain, but just as he had with Connie, he found himself struggling for words. “Shit, so much has happened. I don’t know where to start. Just, uh, get in touch with Tucker if I disappear again? He can explain--”

He stumbled to a stop, realizing that she didn’t know about him and Tucker. It turned out that ghosts could blush, or at least feel like they were, since he felt his cheeks warm. “Um, I guess long story short is I’m a ghost, but I possessed a body for a while, and now everyone can see and feel me. Also, uh, Tucker and I are...you know. Well, trying to be. I keep getting dragged into the afterlife and back again, so I guess it’s a long-term relationship or something?”

Tex looked at him for a moment. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

“ _Okay_?” Church said, blinking. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Church, what do you expect me to say? Ghosts don’t exist? You’re here. Either you’re a ghost or I lost my mind when I saw Connie get swept away by the landslide.” She suddenly smiled, one of her old wicked smiles that had first caught his attention years ago. His heart gave another stuttering jump in his chest as she said, “And the Tucker thing isn’t really a surprise.”

“Really?”

“ _Really_ ,” Tex drawled. “I know the signs of a Leonard Church crush.” She snorted. “Who knew you had to die to finally get your shit together?”

“Hey,” Church objected halfheartedly. Then he looked at her again, trying to memorize her face in case this was the universe’s way of letting him have his final goodbyes before it threw him into the void for good. “If this is the last time--”

She opened her mouth to interrupt, and he raised his voice and spoke faster, knowing her hatred for goodbyes. “If this is the last time we see each other, I just wanted to say thanks for everything. I know I’ve been an asshole and a dumbass some of the time, okay, most of the time, and you have to admit you’ve been a bitch sometimes, but...I’m really glad we met. You changed my life. You’re my goddamn family. Okay?”

Tex’s expression was unreadable before it softened slightly. “Okay,” she said. She leaned in. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard as she kissed his cheek. “For the record, you’re my family too. And Church? If I see you again, I expect to hear all about this whole ghost thing from you. Not just the cliff notes version.”

“Deal,” Church said with a watery laugh. He straightened, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes. They felt wet, but his hand came away dry. He blinked down at it in confusion. Then he jumped at the sudden hard tug of his stomach. Desperation filled him. “Tex, I--”

Tex vanished. So did Connie and the plane.

Instead Church stood in a more familiar room. He’d helped choose the blue for the walls, having been dragged along to help remodel Caboose’s new room. He’d stood on a wobbly ladder, carefully placing glow-in-the-dark stars where Chloe, the astrophysicist, and Isabel, the astrologist, had directed. Now he looked up, tracing the faint constellations with his eyes. There were the Argo Narvis, the Auriga, Orion, and Delphinus.

In the bathroom, Caboose sang garbled and off-key as he brushed his teeth.

Church sat down on the bed and waited. He resisted the urge to put a hand on his stomach like it would ward off the tugging sensation that yanked him all over the world. His brain was fixated on the worst case scenario, that the universe was just letting him say goodbye to everyone. Absorbed with his thoughts, he was caught by surprise when Caboose yanked the door open and flooded the bedroom with light.

“ _CHURCH!”_

Arms wrapped around Church and squeezed. Church smiled despite the ache in his ghostly ribs. “Hey, Caboose.”

“Church, you came back much sooner this time,” Caboose said happily. “It’s only been a month! Did you miss me? Was Casper nice? Did you see my dad? Do you want to have a sleepover?” Without warning and before Church could ask the exact date, Caboose bellowed, “ _MOM, CAN CHURCH AND I STAY UP LATE?”_

Footsteps approached the bedroom. “Michael, can you and who….. Oh, dear God in Heaven.” Caboose’s mother swayed where she stood at the threshold. Then she made a fumbling sign of the cross against her chest. Church tried not to take offense, though he didn’t think the gesture would do anything to a Jewish ghost.

“Church came back!” Caboose explained.

“I see,” said his mother weakly.

Church attempted to look less ghost-like. He stepped away from Caboose and smiled awkwardly. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, Mrs. Caboose.”

“Call me Jochebed,” she said, seemingly on instinct, as she always did, and then ran a trembling hand across her mouth, looking as though she wished she could take the words back. She half-leaned against the door-frame, her hand dropping to her chest like she was going to make the sign of the cross again. Then she looked at Caboose. Something in his face made her relax slightly. She said, still cautious, “Well, I suppose the Bible doesn’t deny the existence of ghosts….”

“It doesn’t? I mean, yeah, of course it doesn’t,” Church said hastily.

He was saved by Caboose. “Church was going to tell me about his visit with Casper.”

Church sighed. “Caboose, I didn’t meet Casper. I, uh, saw Tex actually.”

“Tex?” Caboose’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh no! Is she dead too?”

“No,” Church said. He suppressed a shiver at the thought. “No, but one of her team had been hurt and I….” He paused to eye Mrs. Caboose and consider his words. She might seem accepting at the moment, but he wasn’t going to press his luck talking about empty voids instead of Heaven. “I talked to her teammate until they got her stable.”

Enlightenment dawned on Mrs. Caboose’s face, along with a slow smile. “Of course! You were her guardian angel,” she said in the same knowing tone Caboose sometimes used.

“Sure, I-- wait, what.”

“Just as you’re Michael’s guardian angel.” Mrs. Caboose stepped closer to him, clasping her hands together and smiling earnestly. “Don’t you see? You kept my boy safe in the sea after the crash. You moved here to be closer to him. When you were alive, did you think I didn’t know you called every night to make sure Michael had taken his pills? You’re his guardian angel.”

“Uh,” said Church. He was helpless in the face of her fervent conviction. Still guilt twisted like a knife in his stomach. He hadn’t kept Caboose safe, whatever Tucker or Caboose's mother said. But he’d never convince them of that, especially not when the woman’s eyes shone like they did now. “Sure,” he said at last, giving up for the moment. “Still learning, though.”

He jumped as Caboose tried to pat his back. “Caboose, buddy, what are you doing?”

“If you’re an angel, where are your wings?”

Church sighed.

“Also, can angels have pie?”

“I have no idea, Caboose,” Church said, overlapped by Mrs. Caboose’s, “Oh, I think I still have half of a rhubarb downstairs. You’ll have to brush your teeth again afterwards, Michael.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Caboose said cheerfully. Once she’d left, though, his brow furrowed. “Church, I thought you were a ghost.”

“I am,” Church said. At least if he had a choice, he’d go with a ghost over a guardian angel. Guardian angels weren’t a Jewish thing. He shrugged. “But if it makes your mom happy to call me a guardian angel, I’m not going to argue with her.”

“Okay,” Caboose said, nodding. He flopped backwards onto his bed. His feet dangled over the edge, idly kicking at the air. After a second, he asked, “Are we going to have a sleepover?”

Church winced at Caboose’s hopeful expression. He scratched at his jaw. “Maybe. I still don’t really know how this ghost thing works. I might leave again.”

Caboose nodded again. He looked unworried. “Okay. Just come back soon.”

“I’ll try,” Church said. It was the closest he could come to a promise. This time he half-expected the tug on his stomach. He was beginning to think this really was just the universe letting him say goodbye. He swallowed. “Yeah, rain-check on the sleepover, rookie.”

Caboose looked up at him, smiling sweetly. “Bye, Church!”

The fake stars and Caboose disappeared.

Church sucked in a breath, because now he stood in Tucker’s living room. The TV was on, the volume a low murmur of sound. The lights and colors played upon Tucker’s sleeping face. He was in a tank top and boxers, a forgotten blanket pooled around his feet, an open beer half on a coaster. Hope perched uneasily in Church’s chest. For a second, he didn’t dare to move, as though moving would send him back to the void or somewhere else. Then he stepped closer, bending to cup Tucker’s cheek. It was warm against his palm. He marveled that he could still feel.

“Hey,” he said softly, watching Tucker’s brow furrow and his eyelashes flutter. “Tucker.”

Tucker startled awake. He blinked groggily, his mouth slack with surprise and drowsiness, and then grabbed Church’s shoulders. He started to speak, then shook his head and pulled Church down into a kiss. The intensity of it stole Church’s breath.

When Tucker drew back, gasping, Church tried to smile. “Hey, I’m getting better at this. Only took a month or two this time, right?”

Tucker’s fingers dug into Church’s arms. “Fuck off,” he said, without heat. He stared wonderingly. His one hand loosened. Shaking fingers stroked Church’s cheek, and then fingered the glasses that perched on Church’s nose. “Are you still…. You’re still a ghost, right? You feel real.”

The hope in his voice hurt. “I guess,” Church said, forcing a smile. “Looks like possessing that Jimmy guy gave me some weird abilities. Though if Caboose’s mom asks, I’m a guardian angel. I don’t want to deal with a goddamn exorcist.”

Tucker snorted. “Exorcisms won’t work. Kimball tried that with Ortez. The priest had a nervous breakdown, and the only thing hurt was Ortez's feelings.” His hands wandered over Church almost absently as he spoke.

Church’s throat tightened. Impatient longing filled him. He straddled Tucker, feeling his knees sink into the cushions. He leaned down to kiss Tucker and then stopped halfway, Tucker’s words actually registering. “So Ortez is still there? He never left?”

“Yeah.”

Church scowled. “So he stays in one place and I keep getting ping-ponged around the world and into a void? That’s bullshit.”

“Maybe he could help,” Tucker suggested. His hand settled on Church’s thigh, warm and grounding through the fabric. “We’ll call tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Church said. He tried to ignore the pessimistic voice in his head that said he wouldn’t be here tomorrow. It didn’t work. All his earlier desperation returned, though he kept it off his face.

Tucker’s thumb rubbed over Church’s hip. He grinned slowly. “So are you stuck in these clothes forever, or can I take them off you?”

Church laughed despite his worry. He looked down at himself. He was wearing the same outfit he’d died in, though like Connie there was no sign of his fatal injuries. For a second he was tempted to see what would happen if he took off his jacket. But he didn’t know how much time he had left, and he wasn’t going to waste it. “Sounds like an experiment for later. But right now….” He tugged at Tucker’s tank top and pulled it off. Tucker’s skin was warm under his hands. He brushed his fingertips across Tucker’s nipples and over his collarbones, still marveling that he could touch him and actually feel something. “I want to touch you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tucker said, his voice impossibly fond.

Church fought down his impatience and worry, fought against the fear that in another second he’d try to touch Tucker and watch his hand pass right through. He kissed Tucker, relearning the shape of his mouth and the way Tucker groaned, low and needy, when Church bit at his lower lip. The TV light was dim, but he didn’t dare waste time fumbling with the nearest lamp, not when there was enough light to see the scar low on Tucker’s stomach. Church kissed the knife wound, tracing the raised skin with his tongue.

Above him, Tucker groaned again. His hands moved restlessly over Church’s hair and shoulders, his grip loosening and tightening as Church kissed the scar a second time. “Church,” he said, almost pleading.  

Church grinned, slipping his fingers under Tucker’s waistband and shoving the boxers down. Then he slid off the couch, Tucker’s fingers still tangled in his hair. He kissed Tucker’s inner thighs. He breathed in the scent, almost but not quite cloying.

Then he kissed the tip of Tucker’s dick.

Tucker’s entire body shuddered. “Fuck!” Tucker said, his voice muffled. Church looked up. Tucker had buried his face in the crook of his elbow, his head tipped back against the cushions. His chest rose and fell unsteadily.

Church instinctively yanked at Tucker’s arm. He had to see Tucker’s face. “Don’t,” he ordered, hearing the desperate note in his voice too late.

Tucker blinked. Then his expression softened. His hand returned to Church’s hair. He stroked it so gently that Church closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears and then barked out a laugh as Tucker said, “Should’ve known you’d be a needy bitch in bed.”

“Says the guy who didn’t even say hello before kissing me.”

Church didn’t give Tucker a chance to respond. He took as much of Tucker into his mouth as he could. For a second Tucker’s dick was an uncomfortable weight on his tongue, the taste unfamiliar and alien. He hadn’t done this since Basic. He tried to remember what to do with his teeth. Then Tucker shifted. At that shallow thrust, Church forgot to be anxious. He licked the underside of Tucker’s cock and then worked his mouth up and down the length. Soon his jaw ached, a distant pain. He savored it. If he forgot feelings, as the ghost lady had said, he’d still remember this. His eyes wanted to close, but he kept them open to watch Tucker’s face as he came.

The taste was bitter in Church’s mouth. He grabbed the blanket and spat into it, grimacing a little. Then he frowned. The taste faded quickly. When he rubbed a hand against his mouth, his fingers came away clean. Even the aching of his jaw was rapidly easing, and with it, his arousal. Was this what the woman had meant when she’d said he’d forget how to feel? He’d still take it, even if the sensations were fleeting.

“So,” Tucker said once he’d caught his breath. His finger tapped at the bridge of Church’s glasses. He grinned. There were small indentations where he’d bitten his lips. Church itched to touch Tucker’s mouth and kiss him again, or get Tucker’s fingers off his glasses and back on him. His arousal had receded, but now it surged again as Tucker asked, “What do you think happens if we take these off?”

Then Tucker’s eyes widened. He stared over Church’s head, then scrambled for his clothes, hissing, “I think Junior’s awake.”

“Pretty sure we didn’t wake him up,” Church assured him, tossing the blanket onto the couch beside Tucker in case he wanted to do a quick clean-up. “That kid sleeps like the dead.” He winced at his choice of words, and winced again at Tucker’s look. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Tucker said, unsmiling. He grabbed for his boxers. “Just stop him before he gets an eyeful, okay?”

When Church went into the bedroom, Junior was still in bed, rubbing at his eyes and yawning as he fumbled for a half-full glass of water at his bedside. One eye blinked at Church. The fumble turned into a flail. The glass wobbled but didn’t tip over. “Uncle Church!”

Church’s throat tightened. “Hey, buddy.” Tangled in his sheets, Junior fell out of bed in his mad scramble towards Church. Church dove for him, laughing a little as he caught Junior against his chest. “Watch it! You can’t be a ghost too.”

Junior clutched at him, burying his face in Church’s chest. “You came back.” The words were clear even with the speech impediment.

Church swallowed around the tightness. “Yeah, I did, but…. I don’t know if I can stay. If I can, I will. That pinky promise still counts.” Junior murmured a quiet agreement, but didn’t let go. Church didn’t know how long they held onto each other, Junior clinging tightly, Church compulsively running his hand over Junior's hair again and again.

Eventually Junior pulled back a little. He wiped at his eyes and then squinted.

It took Church a second to realize why Junior was staring. He laughed, fiddling with his glasses. “Yeah, I still have them. Weird, right?”

“Weird,” Tucker agreed. Church turned, Junior still clinging to him, and found Tucker smiling fondly. He’d managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants. “Hey, Junior. Up for a slumber party?” Then Tucker’s expression changed. He winced. “Oh sh-- dang. Caboose is going to be mad I didn’t tell him you’re here.”

Church had no idea how long it had been between his visit to Caboose’s and now. It could've been an hour or a week. He shrugged, hoping that it hadn’t been too long. “Invite him over tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Tucker said. He bent and scooped Junior into his arms with an exaggerated grunt of effort. Junior giggled as Tucker swung him around and said, “Slumber party! Slumber party!” He was still giggling as Tucker lowered him just enough that he could grab Pete the Cat and then carried him down the hall.

Church waited until they were out of sight before he touched his stomach. He wanted to trust its solidity. If Ortez could stay in one place, couldn’t he? Too bad he’d never been an optimist. He took a breath. Well, he hadn’t vanished yet.

Junior sat in the middle of Tucker’s bed. His smugness was explained by Tucker’s apologetic, “Pete the Cat called dibs on the middle.”

Church remembered the previous warning about Junior kicking in his sleep. He grinned. “Well, I’m a ghost. I probably won’t bruise.” When he laid down, though, he found himself eye to eye with Pete the Cat. Behind the stuffed animal, Junior’s face shone with expectation. Church glanced between him and Tucker. “What?”

Tucker shrugged. His tone was innocent, but his eyes laughed as he said, “Pete the Cat also wants a bedtime story.”

“Uh,” said Church.

Junior said something, and Tucker grinned. “Yeah, I’m sure Church won’t mind reading Four Groovy Buttons.”

Well, it was better than the alternative. And Church didn’t even finish the story. By the time Pete had lost two buttons, Junior was sound asleep. The stuffed animal had migrated to Tucker’s lap, who bit back a laugh as he set it on the pillow above Junior’s head. Then it was quiet, Junior breathing soft and deep between them.

Tucker whispered, the same painful hope in his voice as before, “Think you’re sticking around?”

Church kept his voice low as well. “If Ortez can, I don’t see why I can’t.” Desperation gripped him again. He leaned over and kissed Tucker. He kept it slow and gentle despite his panic, making it a promise as heartfelt as his pinky swear to Junior.

When the kiss ended, Tucker’s smile was soft. He tapped Church’s glasses. “Taking those off anytime soon?”

Church smirked despite himself. “Why? I thought they were a turn-on.”

Tucker made a face. “Fuck you.”

It was easier than Church would have thought, to fall back into their old familiar teasing. “Maybe tomorrow. Besides, I don’t have a manual. If I take my glasses off and they disappear, I might be half-blind for the rest of my ghostly existence. You want me to squint at you for the next sixty years?”

“Yeah, never mind. You’d miss my beautiful face too much,” Tucker said, and laughed quietly against Church’s mouth as Church rolled his eyes and kissed him again.

Junior muttered and shifted in his sleep. One small arm flung upwards, searching for Pete the Cat, and almost smacked them in the face mid-kiss. They both retreated to their side of the bed, swallowing back laughter as Junior, still asleep, drew the stuffed animal to his chest.

“See you in the morning?” Tucker’s whisper was both a command and a plea.

Church couldn't make a promise he might not keep, not to Tucker. He couldn't even speak. He kissed Tucker one more time, letting some of the desperation creep in. This time when the kiss ended, they were both silent. Church studied Tucker’s face in the lamplight, noticing for the first time a few small creases at the corners of his eyes. Maybe they both were trying to fix this memory in their minds.

Then Tucker gave himself a little shake and reached for the lamp switch. “Night, Church.”

“Night,” Church whispered. He slipped under the covers instinctively, turning onto his stomach even though he doubted ghosts slept. The room went dark. Church stared up at the ceiling and listened to the sound of Tucker’s breathing slow. He found himself mimicking Tucker’s breathing, though Tucker slept restlessly, tossing and turning.

Church hesitated. What if he went to touch Tucker and felt his hand sink through flesh and the bed? What if he was yanked back to the void the moment he touched Tucker again? He lay there, frozen by indecision.

Then Tucker shifted, yanking most of the covers to his side. At Junior’s drowsy complaint, Church steeled himself and reached out. He fumbled a little in the dark, feeling the stolen covers bunched around Tucker’s waist. His fingers found Tucker’s bare chest. He pressed his palm carefully to Tucker’s chest. His hand stayed solid. Tucker’s breathing evened out beneath his fingertips, but Church lay there, tense and anxious. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for midnight, whichever came first. He found himself thinking of fairy tales, when the magic faded at the stroke of midnight. If he could last past midnight, maybe it was a sign he was here to stay.

He didn’t sleep. He didn’t think he _could_ sleep. He didn’t even dare to close his eyes, and wondered if he should be weirded out that they didn’t itch from lack of blinking. Matching his breathing to Tucker’s, he watched the clock.

The alarm display read 11:24, then 11:25. And then it was dark.

For a second Church panicked. He started to flail, noticing too late he wasn’t surrounded by the dark of the void, and then yelped as his hand smacked against something hard and metal.

Light fell upon his face. Blinking, he stared at Junior’s upside-down face. He was under the bed, he realized. Junior had pulled the covers up and was staring. “Uncle Church?” He mumbled an untranslatable question.

Tucker’s face joined Junior’s. For a second relief wiped any other emotion from his face. Then amusement tinged the relief, and Tucker grinned. “Thank Christ, we thought-- You comfortable under there? Want a pillow?”

“Uh,” Church said, still blinking. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his thoughts slow and sluggish with confusion. When he shook his head to clear it, he nearly cracked his skull against the bed-frame. He crawled out from under the bed. It was morning, one of those winter days where the sky was blue and cloudless. Hope made him feel light and insubstantial. He touched his stomach with tentative hands. He felt solid, though the tips of his fingers had that slightly shadowy look that Ortez and Gates had.

He tried to speak. His throat felt tight. At last he forced the words out. “I guess you guys are stuck with me.”

“I guess we are,” Tucker said, and then dragged him and Junior into a hug. Tucker breathed hard against Church’s neck, laughing shakily. It was impossible to tell who was trembling more, him or Church.

Junior squirmed out of their arms and bounded towards the door, saying something in a happy, indecipherable rush.

“So,” Tucker said hoarsely. “Want to see if ghosts can eat pancakes?”

Church laughed. “Sounds like we have to. For science.”

“For science,” Tucker agreed. A familiar light sparked in his eyes. “I can think of a few other things we could try for science….”

They were still kissing when Junior came skidding back into the room just long enough to shout "Pancakes! And Uncle Caboose!"  before he was gone again. 

Tucker groaned and dropped his head to Church's shoulder as the front door slammed open and Caboose began to shout. "Fuck. We're never getting private time again." 

"Uh, screw you, I'm the pessimist in this relationship," Church said. "Don't make me be an optimist and say that Caboose won't stay here forever." At Tucker's skeptical look, he winced. "Okay, he'll try, but his mom will drag him home eventually." 

"Hey!" They both jumped in surprise at Grif's voice. "Caboose, you promised me pancakes. The stove isn't even on! Did you like to me? About  _food_? I thought we were friends!"

"Jesus, Grif," Simmons snapped. "Do you not have a romantic bone in your body? Shut up!" 

"Yeah," Donut chimed in as Tucker dropped his head back to Church's shoulder, this time to muffle his laughter. "Let Tucker and Church have a  _moment_." 

"Besides, we Marines can out-cook and out-bake any Air Force man!" Something crashed in the kitchen, and Sarge grumbled, "Our cupboards are better organized too. Now where does Tucker keep his baking powder?" 

"So about that private time," Tucker said, and laughed when Church sighed. Tucker kissed him, a slow, easy kiss that banished most of Church's irritation. 

Church savored the moment: Tucker's mouth against his, the sound of their friends bickering in the kitchen, Junior laughing, the tentative belief that he was home for good. Happiness replaced hope. He felt as light as air when the kiss ended. He grinned. "Now let's go make some pancakes before Sarge burns down the house and turns us all into ghosts."   

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

‘From Ghost Hunters to Ghosts: The Otherworldly Tale of the Reds and Blues’

Dylan Andrews  
April 8, 2018  
Global Daily News

When I set out last October to write an article about the Reds and Blues, I had no premonition of truly how strange their tale would become. How could anyone have anticipated that Leonard Church would be dead only a few weeks later, killed in an accident during filming their anniversary special? Who would have anticipated that three months after his death, he would seemingly return to prove the existence of ghosts?

Since its upload on YouTube on April 5, the _Fighting Ghosts_ episode “The Fight at the Gates House” has become one of the most-watched videos of all time, with the views at the time of this article’s publication reaching 1.2 billion.

Is the video, which appears to show the Reds and Blues fighting the ghosts of two nineteenth century train robbers and being rescued by the ghost of Leonard Church, real or a macabre April Fool’s prank? The entire world seems consumed by the question. Skeptics argue that it’s altered footage, an ill-advised attempt to boost their ratings and claim paranormal challenges prizes. Believers claim that the video is inarguable proof of the supernatural.

We may have our answer tomorrow.

Scientists from all around the world converge upon Wilmington, Delaware on April 9 to perform a series of tests on the man alleging to be the ghost of Leonard Church. They won’t be alone. Although previously the Reds and Blues have refused to give any interviews, their agent reached out to the Global Daily News with an exclusive invitation to observe. The owner of the Gates House Vanessa Kimball and supposed possession victim James Murnau will also be there. Witnessing as well will be representatives from international rationalist and skeptic groups, including Independent Investigations Group, SKEPP, and the European Council of Skeptical Organizations.

I will liveblog both the experiments and my one-on-one interviews on the Global Daily News Twitter account (@GlobalDailyNews). The entire event will also be livestreamed on the Reds and Blues YouTube channel.  

While you wait, you can read our previous article about the Reds and Blues [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496230/chapters/30950888), watch the controversial [episode](https://roosterteeth.com/series/red-vs-blue) yourself, or view this compilation videos of people reacting to the episode.   

 

 

**Timeline**

October 24, 2017 - The Reds and Blues film at the Harrington House in Wilmington, Delaware. Leonard Church falls from an unfinished part of the building and is declared dead at 11:24 PM. The group goes on hiatus for a month, asking for privacy. The anniversary video is never released.

December 1, 2017 - The Reds and Blues upload a short film in memory of Leonard Church. The following week, the group resumes filming their regular shows for their YouTube channel.

February 3, 2018 - A hit-and-run occurs on the University of Delaware campus. The victim is brought to Wilmington Hospital as a John Doe without any identification.

February 6, 2018 - After being declared legally brain-dead, John Doe regains consciousness. When interviewed by Wilmington police, he pleads amnesia. Shortly afterwards, hospital video captures John Doe’s escape from the hospital. A missing persons alert is sent out.

February 7, 2018 - The Reds and Blues travel to Seymour, Indiana to investigate the Gates House. With them is a new member who identifies himself as Jimmy to the owner of the Gates House, Vanessa Kimball.

February 8, 2018 - At 2:45 AM, Sarge and Richard Simmons arrive at the local hospital Schneck Medical Center with serious but non-fatal injuries. At the same time, a call from the Gates House is made to the local police. Jimmy identifies himself as James Murnau, 24, a resident of Atlanta, Georgia. Later he is identified as the John Doe from Wilmington Hospital.

February 9, 2018 - Vanessa Kimball closes the Gates House to all visitors, citing emergency maintenance. The same day Lavernius Tucker uploads a brief video to the _Fighting Ghosts_ channel saying that the entire channel will be on a hiatus for an undisclosed time but to expect their biggest episode yet when they returned. The Reds and Blues as well as Kimball and her staff go radio silent, refusing all interviews.  

April 5, 2018 - The Reds and Blues release the “The Fight at the Gates House” episode. The final half-hour includes parallel interviews with Leonard Church and a man claiming to be Samuel Ortez, the second-in-command of the Gates Gang.

April 6, 2018 - James Murnau reaches out to a local paper, telling his story of traveling by Megabus to New York City, being injured in Wilmington, and recovering his senses in Seymour.

April 8, 2018 - The agent for the Reds and Blues reaches out to the Global Daily News, expressing an interest in having them be the lone media presence to witness the experiments to prove that Leonard Church is a ghost.

April 9, 2018 - Scientists and skeptics will meet with the Reds and Blues in Wilmington, Delaware to prove or disprove their claims, with GDN’s reporter Dylan Andrews and cameraman Jax Jones on site.

**Author's Note:**

> Brent and Ryan's discussion that started it all:
> 
>  **Brent:** Footage is not science!  
>  **Ryan:** Well, there's no one that's like, "I'm gonna be a ghost scientist."  
>  **Brent:** Why not?  
>  **Ryan:** Because that's a we--  
>  **Brent:** There's footage!  
>  **Ryan:** Just think of that title on a business card. That's weird. "I'm a ghost scientist."


End file.
